A Different Course
by KorrohShipper
Summary: "If you weren't so much of a martyr, we would not be in this situation—why are you so selfless, why did you desire to be a different kind of ruler when that would cost you your head?" Francis whispered against the wall, unable to see the beaten state of his wife.—Starts 3x05. Francis survives, which creates a possibility for a Bourbon-ruled France and a new marriage for Queen Mary.
1. PROLOGUE

_**PROLOGUE**_

* * *

"This is _not_ how I imagined our trip to Paris, Mary," Francis whispered silently, whose face was illuminated by a single torch, against the cold metal bars separating him from his wife who sat rotting inside a prison cell, a cell not even fitting for a human being, as he felt the excruciating pain of having condemn his wife to trial and to turn her over to the mercy of both Elizabeth and _Parliament de Paris_. "If you weren't so much of a martyr, we would not be in this situation—why are you _so_ selfless, why did you desire to be a different kind of ruler when that would cost you your head?" Francis whispered against the wall, unable to see the beaten state of his wife.

"Because of love. I am fueled by my love for my countrymen, driven by my love for my nation, and motivated by my love for you, _Francis_. . .of all people, know that it is _you_ who I am dying for," and in that moment, all Francis could do, even as a King of France, was pray to God or any being who could save his wife.

* * *

 _ **I do not own REIGN or the character of said television series. Both the CW Network and Laurie McCarthy does the "ownership" part for me. I'm a peasant.**_


	2. Chapter I

Francis could only stare at his mother, Catherine, who clung insistently unto his arm. His mind refusing to digest the words of such weight and gravity because of its insanity, its _ridiculousness_. The very thought of those words would have sent him laughing, a laughter that could be heard by the alps of his nation, weren't for his mother's serious and desperate tone and her expression, an expression that tore through his soul by piercing through his eyes.

"A _glowing_ tree? Droplets of blood on _flowers_?" the image made out fuzzy in his mind, a funny and rather strange image of vague and fantastical range not fitting for the tone of the conversation. And _whose_ blood? Was it his? "What does any of this mean?" Francis could only shake his head at his Mother's faith in Nostradamus' talents in foreseeing the future and her paranoia for her children, and although he could not blame her for such measures given the circumstances that she had, only recently, nearly lost him to death— _God knows that her love for family is truly her one redeeming quality_ —she couldn't keep him in her grasps in fear of a future so unlikely to happen, so unclear as to what will happen and to whom.

Catherine faltered and looked unsure for a moment. "I'm not sure, but I thought you should know at once," Catherine's voice held so much vulnerability that Francis, for a moment, could not believe that it is his mother speaking in front of him. The Catherine he knew, the _Medici_ Queen he knew by heart and soul is not so foolish as to reveal to the people, even her _son_ , her weakness and vulnerability.

Francis gave out a confused look and a nervous chuckle. "Know what, exactly?" Catherine shook her head and stared at her son's blue eyes, trying to find and let him see reason, reason that danger lurks near him, danger that could pose as a fatal threat to his life, a life that has been once threatened to a point where the people around him saw salvation as a point long past and gone.

"The specifics don't matter, you're in danger," she insisted continuously, grabbing unto his arms, fingers that shook lightly from the fear that ran through her body, fear of losing her son— _permanently_ , however, this time.

Francis felt his throat grow dry as he find himself repeating the very core of his words, his questions stated just earlier. "How does this foretell my death? Does he _see_ me in this vision?" he wanted to believe, Francis wanted to see for himself the danger so that he could avert it, so that he could avoid it but he couldn't. His existence meant Nostradamus' inaccuracy—he is supposed to be in a wake, his death from a fever of the brain, an abscess of the ear, and yet here he is, standing in front of a grieving mother who has not lost a son.

Then he saw it, the look on his mother's face. Even Catherine, the sturdy Queen Dowager of France, was convincing herself of the words leaving her lips. "It's not always black and white," she paced around for a moment. "Some prophecies he sees clearly, others are more symbolic," she recounted, as if everything had fit perfectly and made sense. "There's something ominous in your future," her nervous body seemed so shaken at the realization, at the entertaining of possibilities and theories. "Your fever of the brain, it's only _recently_ subsided—your health is not yet _fully_ restored," Catherine turned to urge her son who could only look with such disbelief.

Francis let out a sigh of exasperation. How could his mother entertain the thought of him dying when he is good and well? Yes, he does feel his head grow heavy and would sometimes feel his head throb in pain that could, at worst, leave him wanting shut-eye. But that is all, there is nothing to fear with his health—he is the very picture, the very epitome, and dare he say it, the _personification_ of health itself.

Catherine did not come to terms with Francis' reaction. In fact, she felt a bit offended, realizing that her son deems her too _distant_ to not realize that he is in pain, no matter how minor, he is still suffering. _Her_ golden boy is suffering. "I'm your mother, you think I can't tell?" again, she gripped her son's arm and caressed his cheek with the other available hand. "Francis, I _urge_ you to be safe," there was an underlying tone to her message and Francis caught on quickly.

She urged him to be safe, not just for himself, but for his siblings, for Claude and Charles, for Mary, for _her_.

"How?" it was a question of the wise. How does one shield all danger when all his life, Francis thinks, he's been in danger for being born as the person he is. He had been born as a _fils de France_ , raised to become the _Dauphin_ and King of France, the heir to a throne where many lays claim, a King who has survived a coup, a Catholic husband to a Catholic wife who has a blood claim on a Protestant throne. _When_ has he been safe? How does one _define_ safety for the people of his class, for the royals who gambles not only the fortune of nations but also their lives for the course of nations?

"Surround yourself with guards," Catherine quickly answered, superior speed trying to hide the quivering of her lips. "Don't leave the castle," she answered in rapid succession, her eyes avoiding Francis' longing eyes, his blue eyes that were longing for her to see his side, to understand his reason for wanting to leave the castle—for wanting to defy and ignore every possible suggestion she's given the past minute or so, despite every vivid warning she's given him.

"I will _not_ be confined—" it was a firm statement with no preamble. It was fit of a King with an iron resolution, but Catherine had cut her son off.

"Only until _he_ learns more!" she offered hopefully, insisting what has been insisted before and has been denied.

But this only drove Francis to yearn more for the world outside the protected castle walls. The feeling of being restricted, of being denied only gave him the motivation to insist on what he wants, on what he needs to see—the world outside. "Mother," his voice soft and tender, gentle and fitting for a son convincing a mother to let go, "I will not hide here _waiting_ for a dream of my death! I am not being reckless; I'm _living_ my life," it was a soft point made clear and a gentle smile graced Francis' lips and he held his mother's hands in his own. He looked around, taking a deep breath of air before smiling widely at his mother, beaming at her to urge her to understand his newly given perspective. "And if you could see what I see— _the colors_ —they're so much brighter than before, and every moment, every emotion!" Catherine still shook her head gently.

"Your illness, _all_ you've been through—it's changed you," Francis gave out a laugh at her words, smiling tenderly at the mother who only wished to protect him.

"Well, I don't know, _perhaps_ , but I do know that I want to spend every day sailing with Mary until the snow comes, and I want to visit the Matterhorn and the Verdon Gorge—and _yes_ , I will take precaution if only for the sake of the people I love. . .including _you_ ," Francis felt himself smile more brightly as he felt himself being a step closer towards bringing Mary to the places they should have already been to. He felt a step closer to dancing under the stars of his favorite constellation, the Hunter, outside the palace of the Louvre. He saw himself happily dancing the night away with Mary before stealing her away to show her his love for her.

To show Mary the magic that happens between them, the magic that occurs every time when they kiss, touch, look into each other's eyes, hear each other's heart beat, feel the breathing of each other, and making love to one another.

To show Mary, his beautiful Queen Mary Stuart of Scotland, the effect she alone can bestow upon him, an effect that could make him, a King of his own right and nation, bow down to her in pure respect and of love and of adoration. To pour his heart's purest emotion, to show his every feeling as there are no secrets in their union, not in _their_ marriage—not with a love like their's.

"I know that you mean well," Catherine continued to caress his son's cheeks, closely and fervently, as if there was a tragedy to behold somewhere in the near future. "Your actions have always been motivated by your devotion towards me—to _all_ your children," it was a teasing tone, something Catherine caught unto and laughed nervously before staring at her son lovingly and cherished his presence, his very existence and life, _his_ role in her life.

"To you, most of all," a sheepish smile graced Catherine's lips as she memorized the beauty of her son. "I shouldn't have favorites—but you, my _golden_ child, I can't lose you, I _won't_ lose you," she whispered determinedly, her eyes once again begging his not to go.

"But you cannot keep me in a cage—even one built with _love_ ," Francis shook his head softly.

"Then, if not for me, then stay until your brothers Henry and Herculé, and your sister, Marguerite, return," Francis had a look of shock written all over his face, and soon, so did Catherine. "Did the servants not tell you?" it was truly a surprise for Catherine, and for the servants, she considered, a feat had been achieved. _Now_ , Catherine thought, _if only they had achieved this feat long ago_ , she thought wistfully. "They didn't even gossip about their return to court?" Francis shook his head at his mother's question.

His younger siblings. When had he last set his eyes on them or heard their laughter? When was the last time he had considered life to be simple?

"I thought that you would want to see your younger siblings before you die—it would break my heart to see to it that they would never remember a brother who has always protected them, a brother who has always cared for them, I would simply die of a broken heart," it was pure exaggeration, Francis was sure of that, but he also felt guilt reside in his stomach. Should Charles fail as a King and Louis lay claim on their throne, how would they, children too young and innocent, fare out in the word without protection?

With a heavy heart and a deep breath of air, Francis nodded his head and gave in to his mother's wishes. "Alright, but after a week of their return, Mary and I shall set out to Paris," it was flaw, some will say, the King's love for his brothers and his love for Mary. But in Francis' eyes, it was all different.

It made better, and in doing so, it made stronger.

"I shall stay and wait for my siblings to arrive, and after that, Mother, with every available precaution possible for a French King, Mary and I—we _will_ dance under the stars, inside the halls of the Louvre," Catherine smiled. She had bought her son some time, perhaps even his continuous survival!

"And so you shall!"


	3. Chapter II

The, quote unquote, _medicinal_ cabinet inside the chamber of the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici, was ultimately met with a disgruntled sigh and a determined expression as she held up the five empty vials that should have been full to the cap. A soft groan of disappointment escaped her lips when she remembered how it was spilled over a drunken fit to her bed—now all she could think of is how she could get her more of her tonics to present to her _dearest_ daughter-in-law in hopes of assisting her in her endeavor to provide France with its much needed Dauphin.

The lotions from Cairo were used and now, the tonics! Catherine felt a migraine assault her mind when she remembered her oldest companion and co-conspirator—the court physician and seer, Nostradamus, whose accuracy is, as said before, an inarguable feat.

Quickly and gracefully, Catherine had swiftly sauntered through the great halls of the _Château de_ _Blois_ , her head held high and her chin up as servants and several nobles bowed in respect— _or utter fear, she accepted fear **wholeheartedly** and preferred it much more_ —as she strode past them and towards the double mahogany doors of the infirmary, the area of expertise of one court seer, Nostradamus, whose apron was stained with white powder and his gaze, lost and mysterious.

Catherine noticed the lack of bowing, but seeing that she was in such a rush to help Mary in her _duty_ , she dismissed her thoughts. In her mind, there were much more pressing matters to be attended to. "Nostradamus, dear friend," she emptied her hands' content at a table near her, revealing the empty vials. "I need skin tonics and potions for Mary, aiding in fertility—or the lack thereof," in Catherine's mind, it was clear, what she needed to keep Francis within the castle walls— _fatherhood_.

Although the same can't be said for his _father_ , her late husband, Henry II, because unlike Henry, Francis has proved himself to be so much more a power-hungry monarch who desired half of Europe within his grasps, a man who was willing to kill his own son and heir to achieve England, the ultimate prize, by marrying his son's wife— _no_ , Francis had too much goodness and kindness in his heart, too much love for his wife to use her blood right to gain something full of risky decisions and poisonous politics.

Francis, as of the moment, had only been _too_ glad to see Mary's decision to end the English-Scottish War by giving up her claim to the English throne, an unpopular act with the French Court and that of the Vatican. In Francis' eyes, _however_ , it meant less obligation for Mary and if all goes well for the Earl of Moray's regency in Scotland, she would never have to leave his side— _and although God knows how much love Mary has for her people, the Scots, she loves Francis more and, dare she say it, **enough** to leave her people_ —and a true chance, a real and fighting chance to start a peaceful life here at France, even with all the politics.

While Catherine would never _intentionally_ take advantage of her grandchild's life— _she may be cruel, but not heartless and especially not for **family**_ —it is an opportunity. Why not seize the window of opportunity to give her son the happiness he deserves with his wife _and_ , at the same time, protect him from the fate Nostradamus had predicted for him? Why not save her time and efforts and from the grief and worry by hitting two birds with single stone?

While, in reality, Francis is recovering from his recent illness, it is no doubt that it is Mary's love, her very presence at court, ties him to the castle, _henceforth_ , Mary is the key to Francis' continuous survival, and yet even Mary's love cannot truly eclipse his sense of duty to France. His love for his countrymen, his nationalism and his patriotism, she swears, will be the death of him—if not by politics, then by a sword's edge in a battlefield on France's behalf.

So, Catherine believes that there is strength in numbers. If his siblings are not enough, if his family's presence will not suffice, then perhaps a child— _their child_ —will be the anchor heavy enough to keep him here. Two, after all, is better than one and what better inspiration is there than a child with the woman he loves? It's all simple mathematics!

The clicking of glass against the marble counter jarred Catherine back to reality. Seeing the vials set on the table, she heads for the doors. "Remember, Nostradamus," she turned around to see him blinking in rapid succession, his expression still unreadable and lost. "I need the potions tomorrow," she proceeded with caution in choosing her words, not wishing to upset her seer. "Oh, I want you to give this," she grabbed a certain vial with an inscription written on it, "to Mary's chefs—make sure they combine it well with her food. . . _Nostradamus_ , what is happening to you?" her eyes examined the droopiness of his actions and his dilated pupils.

A vision, he's seen a vision!

"What do you see?" vial long forgotten, she rushed to his front, impatiently waiting for a words, any verbal sound that would resemble a prophecy. "Do you see my son's death? Has it been averted? Is the threat still looming by his head?" she grew impatient and irritated. The suspense inside her body sent tremors through her mind as she searched for an answer in his eyes. "Tell me of my son's fate!" and yet Nostradamus uttered no words, not a single sound escaped his lips.

Soon, a ragged breath of air, the need for oxygen rang in the infirmary as Nostradamus clung to the counter for support. "I see," his eyes had wandered far and distant, "I see halls, empty and deserted," Catherine urged him to continue, gripping his arms so hard that she may have deprived his hands by cutting off the circulation of blood. "And I see your son, well and alive, yet he is weeping— _for what reason, I do not know_ —alone and in a place so foreign," Catherine's face paled. Will her efforts be in vain? "I see a man being crowned in the throne room, yet he is not one of your sons," her mouth gaped at his prophecy, a sob that made her lips tremble.

Catherine looked up at Nostradamus expectantly as his face morphed into something of horror and disdain.

" _What_? What is it? What do you see?!" Catherine shook his body until his face found her's, his expression grim and dark. "My Lord, my son is going to be executed, isn't he?" Nostradamus slowly shook his head.

"I see a dark room divided into two by metal bars lit by a single torch, a woman of auburn hair, the _Parliament de Paris_ , and an execution at dawn," Catherine's eyes were met by Nostradamus' brown orbs. "You _will_ lose France. . ." Nostradamus then lost his grip on the counter and fell to the ground as Catherine watched him fall. His throat constricted and tightened, he felt his mouth grow dry. " _However_ , you will need Mary, Queen of Scots, to stay for the House of Valois to remain in power." A gasp escaped Catherine's lips as she stepped away in horror, in the light of the prophecy.

"Can I change this fate?" Nostradamus looked conflicted and unsure, his fingers shaking as his head, subconsciously, shook sideways.

Catherine rushed outside of the infirmary and ran towards any room, any servant or noble who could help her find Mary.

Meanwhile, Nostradamus' world fell into darkness as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

* * *

Nostradamus found himself waking up from the ground, his head throbbing in pain as he pushed himself up. A groan escaped his lips as he finally stood on both of his feet, staring at the open doors leading to the halls that connected him to the palace. The bells were tolling and the trumpets, no matter how distant, rang triumphantly in the air as Nostradamus pushed himself towards the source of the sound— _outside, by the courtyard, near the gates of the_ castles—dragging his feet towards the door, only to be greeted by a sight he had foreseen.

The halls were unattended to.

The once bustling halls of _Château de Blois_ had been deserted and seemed empty as he walked alone in the path towards the door, in his mind, a clear and ringing vivid image.

An image of Mary's severed head.


	4. Chapter III

The whole of French Court abandoned the enchanting halls of the _Château de Blois_ as both the nobles and servants alike stood outside in the courtyard waiting anxiously for a carriage carrying the royal insignia of the House of Valois or perhaps for the trumpets to sound triumphantly to mark the return of the royal children, the younger children of the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici: Prince Henry, Princess Marguerite de Valois, and young Prince Herculé.

While everyone was simply ecstatic about the return of the late King Henry's youngest children to French Court— _what could be a better opportunity to propel a career other than having an easily blackmailed senior member of the Royal Family whose trust is effortlessly gained because they're children?_ —the nobles and servants who stood waiting were wondering with rather colorful imagination on where their sovereign monarchs had disappeared into.

Unbeknownst to them, they were being watched by said sovereign monarchs who stood barely clothes by the window of their chambers. " _Francis_ ," her tone was scolding and reprimanding, as if she was his mother giving him a word of advice after charging into the battle of Calais with the English. "Francis, we are King and Queen—we have a graceful and benevolent image to uphold!" Mary turned around with a sigh escaping her lips when Francis had embraced her from behind, his face hidden in the crook of her neck. "We have an image to uphold and your little _scene_ in the courtyard helped nothing of it!" Francis laughed at Mary's concerns, her pleading only motivating him to do otherwise.

As a brother, he couldn't have been more excited than to see his siblings again after such a long time. No one can truly say otherwise. However, with the beautiful form of his wife by his side, his mind couldn't help but get itself _preoccupied_ before Francis decided to passionately steal his wife away on a romantic rendezvous towards their chamber with a passionate kiss and a rather short whisper to Mary's ear: a whisper that had gotten Mary's cheeks to flush crimson red for the whole of French Court to see.

In the end, Francis managed to steal his wife way with a giggle escaping her lips as they made their way through the crowd, a resounding name rang through the air.

" _Francis_!" even from the Royal Chambers of the King and Queen, it was visible that the nobles and servants alike were gossiping about their rulers who couldn't get enough of each other—they were simply in love and it seems like they would remain that way for a very long time.

"I _know_ what you're thinking," a knowing smile graced Francis' lips as he read Mary's mind when he turned her around to face him. His hands were firmly placed on Mary's shoulders and her frown quite iron on her face. A frown, Francis had decided at the moment, did not belong on his Queen's face. A smile suits her better, without doubt.

"Francis, we should be down _there_ , with your court and people, waiting for _your_ siblings!" Francis gave out a laugh and his grin only grew wider. Mary knew to herself that Francis understood what she was feeling. Mary loves spending time with her husband, especially after the life-shaking moment where she had actually lost Francis to death— _Mary would leap high and jump long at the opportunity to spend time with her husband should she be presented with the chance to do so_ —but the gossips and rumors they generate, their romantic escapades, is beyond Mary's capacity to handle civilly and rationally.

" _Oh_ , but we were down there, Mary, waiting for my siblings like the rest of them," Francis couldn't resist the sight of his wife in front of him as he leaned down again and breathed in her scent, gently sucking on the spot below her ear. "We were waiting with them when your husband, your _wonderful_ husband," at that point, even Mary couldn't even prevent the laughter escaping from her lips, "decided that instead of waiting by the gates of the castle, we could spend our time more productively," it was suggestive, Francis' tone, as he smiled at his wife. Mary had opened her mouth to protest when Francis, swift as he is, had cut her off. "And don't you go on saying that what _we_ are doing is unproductive—I've been so-told by the servants and guards paroling our halls that the pursuit of mutual carnal satisfaction is anything but irrelevant and unproductive," Francis sensually moved in front of her before capturing her lips in a single fluid motion, exploring her mouth as if it's the first time they've ever kissed—with Mary, Francis feels every experience to be new and unfamiliar, something so intriguing and exciting, so _Mary_ in essence.

"But you've read their letters, Francis," a cream-colored letter flashes in Francis' mind as he remembered their governess' letter, remembering the little notes she's included regarding his sibling's joy in being returned to Court and in seeing their family. "They will be beyond devastated when see to the courtyard the absence of the King, their brother!" Francis found it endearing, the sight of Mary putting his family first. His heart swelled at her generosity and couldn't help himself but think on how fortunate he is, having a wife like Mary, and the thought of her being a mother to their child. . .oh, it will be the greatest joy for all of France and Scotland!

Mary looked up and laughed at the mischievous face Francis had on his face. "They wouldn't be too upset with us Mary, trust my word on that matter," Mary raised a curious brow at Francis' retort.

"And why is that?" Francis grin only grew wider as he carried Mary, whose lips continued to part off giggles that resounded throughout their chambers, off to their four-poster bed, a bed that held so much memories and enough sex to scandalize even the French, and pinned her down against their mattress, his body effectively shielding Mary's frame.

"Because we can tell them— _and truthfully, be honest with them_ —that we've been trying vigorously in our attempts to arrange for their new playmate!"

* * *

 _ **A bit of a filler chapter here. Some fluff between Mary and Francis before thing head for a turn down south.** _


	5. Chapter IV

"Well, _I_ quite like the new banners."

Mary stood watching as the servants took the banners and arms containing the arms of the English lion, replacing them with the new ones that only contained the French Dolphin and the Scottish lion. "Well," Greer's voice jarred Mary back to reality and out of her deep thought, "who needs the English lion anyway?" Mary couldn't help but chuckle in agreement as she watched the silk banner fall to the flooring only to be swept away by the servants.

Mary could only nod in agreement. After everything it's brought her, this English campaign for Scotland, it's only right that she end this peacefully after so much blood has been spilled on her hand— _she may have resented the fact, but Catherine proved to be right when she said that ruling requires her hands be drenched in her people's blood_ —and so much lives had perished because of the whim of a possibility and the hunger for power from a deceased king.

King Henry II has died and it is only right that they move on and his political ambitions of ruling half of Europe die with him; too much French blood has been spilled, too much gold squandered, Scots divided, and children of God driven apart. Mary cannot allow herself as _Queen_ of both Scotland and France to see to it that more lives are carelessly wasted on a cause that has never been hers, a dream that was dictated by others, and that the lives of her countrymen gone in vain.

She will not allow this!

"Of course, we already have Scotland to worry about— _it's already so challenging to rule Scotland, let alone the rest of the British Isles!_ —let Elizabeth and the English Tudors deal with their problems and I my own," Greer only stared happily at the newly hung banners, displaying only the French coat of arms and the Scottish lion, humming in agreement with her Queen and friend. It was, after all, a simple sight with significant implications: the seemingly endless war has ended!

There were footsteps behind them, and Mary couldn't help but smile wider when she recognized the tapping of the leather boots, the familiar sound it brought. _That_ and the people bowing in the corner of her eyes. "I hate to interrupt your conversation, _truly_ , but I need to steal my wife away," Francis sighed wistfully and mocked disappointment while Greer's smile only continued to grow wider and brighter at Francis' attempt to woo his wife away. "I'm afraid our duties call upon us again—yet this is a better alternative, having you by my side rather than to listen to those power-driven politicians alone and slipping near to the edge of sleeping," Mary and Greer laughed in amusement. Mary could only imagine her husband's eyes dropping so low as his nobles rambled on about land reform and proposals of new tax pricings.

" _Please_ , I don't really need her here—steal away!" Greer all but shooed the young, Scottish Queen to her husband, bidding her excuse to go off to her brothel, a house of ill repute, and yet it is of the best reputation among other brothels. Who else could say that _their_ establishment, their _brothel_ that had served faithfully, its young and sovereign monarchs by creating mass panic using their working girls to destroy a coup d'état with _only_ ash upon their fingers as props?

Surely, that deserves some praising and credit!

Francis flashed Greer a thankful smile as he grabbed Mary by the hand and disappeared towards an isolated hall, where he had pinned Mary against the wall, his lips capturing hers as she responded with an equal burning fervor. " _Francis_ ," there was an amused and curious smirk by her lips, her eyebrow raised in a questioning manner and her tone had a laugh woven into it. "I was about to tell Greer about her raising in station— _a very important matter, I promise you_ —an issue we had both agreed about when you suddenly whisked me away here in an excuse of a political meeting?" Mary looked around her as her smirk only grew wider when Francis smiled and hid his face. "Forgive me for assuming, but this does _not_ look like a political meeting," Francis' blue eyes finally met Mary's orbs, effectively getting lost.

"I wasn't lying about the meeting— _the English ambassador, Nicholas, had requested for it, saying it was about your cousin and that it was urgent_ —and while I do regret, having to take you away for this reason, just think of _this_ ," Francis' lips eventually met the spot under Mary's ear, "at least we'll face those dreary old men together!" Mary gave out a loud laugh before Francis cupped her face and kissed her by the lips.

"And _this_ is?" Mary gestured to the both of them and the isolated hall of the East wing of the _Château de Blois_.

Francis gave out a laugh before he lowered his head back into the crook of Mary's neck, his hands supporting her frame by the wasit. "I thought that you wouldn't mind a little detour before we go inside a den filled with lions!"

* * *

"Gentlemen," the nobles bowed in acknowledgement of their presence, the King and Queen, as Francis led his wife towards the end of the table. "I trust that this meeting is quite as urgent as you've conveyed it to be," Nicholas bowed his head deep low before reaching for something inside his coat, which happened to be a letter. Nicholas looked expectantly at Francis, who bowed his head in waved his hand, urging the ambassador to start. "You may begin," again, Nicholas bowed his head and muttered his thanks.

"Majesties," Nicholas passed the letter around for every noble to see. "As you can see in the letter that has been given to me by a messenger from England, written by Queen Elizabeth's most trusted and noble adviser, Sir William Cecil, it is only most rational for us to think that my Queen has been poisoned," gasps erupted as Francis' hand gave Mary's a gentle squeeze before standing up in protest and disbelief. "Please, gentlemen, Majesties, let us remain calm," it was ignored as the talking grew louder.

" _Silence_!" Francis shouted angrily and the room suddenly became quiet, so quiet that a needle could have been dropped and everyone would have heard it. "Is this your way of telling the French court, a foreign court of which you are _only_ a guest to, that your English Queen is accusing the Queen of Scotland and of France, _my_ wife, that she is not only associated, but _responsible_ for the assassination attempt on the English Queen?!" Nicholas remained calm, his expression collected yet the color from his face had drained, his complexion was pale as a sheet.

Having a number of powerful nobles and a _King_ of a nation has this intimidating effect that can wear down even the most brave and courageous of men.

" _Quite_ the contrary, Your Majesty," Mary grabbed Francis' hand and rubbed soothing circles on it, pulling on him slightly, urging him to sit and calm down. "This attempt on her life has made her realize something—she is not going to live forever and she has no legitimate heir," Mary's brows had furrowed together. "Her council has deemed it an advantageous move towards peace and the unification of the British Isles that you will become Elizabeth's heir, for a series of rational and reasonable conditions to be strictly observed and followed, of course," there were murmurings inside the room as nobles, both French and Scottish alike, discussed this.

"And what will this 'ere agreement bring you, _eh_?" a Scottish highland lord of the clan McFie stood up and asked the question everyone was wondering—after so long, an expensive campaign for the Scottish throne and to keep Mary from the English crown, Elizabeth was going to hand it over just like _that_? Queen Elizabeth Tudor may have been impulsive, but this decision is a whole other level to compare with previous matters dealt with.

"The people of England, they are demanding for religious tolerance—what better way to show such tolerance other than a _Protestant English Queen_ naming her cousin, a _Catholic Scottish Queen_ , as her heir to the throne of England? _Both_ the racial and religious discrimination will be be silenced by Her Majesty's acceptance of the offer," there was an exchanging of hushed tones between the people.

There was an uneasy silence between the nobles inside the meeting room. "And what are your Queen's conditions?" Francis knew that he had to stall rather than giving an unpopular answer, especially with the Vatican watching intently, the bishop and cardinal not even bothering to hide their ecstatic expressions. Francis could only imagine what was going on inside their minds but he had an idea on what it is. What could possibly make the Vatican more ecstatic than the news of finally converting England back to Catholicism? While they don't have a male monarch sit on the throne, they have a married Queen whose husband can easily influence decisions based on a mutual ally's word.

Francis could only shake his head at the patriarchal society this society he is living in. If only the world gave its time to know _his_ Mary, a female monarch who is capable of bringing innovation and change?

"While Mary is her proposed heir, Majesty, you _cannot_ claim the English throne while Elizabeth is _alive_. Once you have a child, _however_ , you will have to forfeit your claim over to your child, no matter the sex due to England's reformation and abandoning of the _Salic Law_. _If_ Elizabeth marries and conceives a child, your claim will not be dismissed— _instead_ , your claim and that of your child's will be pushed back in the line of succession for England." Nicholas' face took a grim turn. "Also, if Elizabeth faces an assassination attempt and you are proven as an accomplice, you will be turned over to the _Parliament de Paris_ before being sent to the Tower of London— _with the Vatican's consent and fair trials_ —to receive the punishment seen fit by the Crown." A heavy atmosphere was upon the nobles as Francis looked at his wife.

Francis leaned over to Mary, his breathing ragged, his tones hushed and delivered in whispers. "There is already peace between our nations, Mary, you do not need to take such an enormous risk," Mary opened her mouth to protest, but Francis shushed her and further leaned in to her ear. "I will protect you _even_ from the Vatican." Their greatest ally, the Vatican, how could they risk its favor and avoid such a danger for Mary?

"But Francis, the Vatican is France's strongest and most stable ally—you can't afford to lose them by angering the Pope over the decision of letting the opportunity of converting England back to Catholicism pass by!" Mary whispered in hushed tones. "I cannot cost France her ally as her Queen—I _cannot_ and I _will_ not allow that," Francis shook his head lovingly and smiled at her reassuringly.

"I _can_ afford to lose the Vatican's support, Mary, if that means keeping you safe from the risk of being framed and in mortal danger." Mary's eyes had softened and she smiled warmly at her husband, not caring if she was supposed to put on a fierce and strong façade for the nobles to see.

" _Fine_ ," Mary eventually gave in with a sigh under her breath. "I will allow it, but don't give an answer just yet—stall and buy time, find more options. We need to discuss about this further. . .we can't deny two powerful nations," Francis didn't like the ultimatum his wife gave him, why would he embrace the window of opportunity that allows his wife be so vulnerable at the hands of others? The Vatican could easily corner him into a situation and force him to sign it before eliminating Elizabeth, which, in turn, condemns Mary!

Francis shook his head firmly but Mary's eyes, the message behind her gaze reminded him that she was right. He is the King of France and he cannot act so recklessly even if driven by his love for his wife. "Is there anything else your Queen has for us?" Nicholas nodded and passed a paper to the Lord Chancellor of France, Stephan Narcisse.

"This is absurd!" he stood up abruptly and threw the paper to the ground. "If France, England, and Scotland are allies, then why do we need an exchange of hostages?" the paper crumbled up and was tossed away carelessly—much like the diplomacy inside the room. "We've released five of your high generals already, all of whom treated like royals while in captive, and yet your Queen did not keep her word of releasing my wife's family, instead, you are asking her to move to England as her Scottish adviser? This is _sheer_ madness!" Narcisse pointed an accusing finger at Nicholas and bit his thumb as him.

The crowd murmured in shock and disbelief at the Lord Chancellor's actions.

"Well, we'll have to ask your wife—France is a free country, after all, and if her Queen so allows it, I see no reason as to why we shouldn't take the issue to your wife, the Lady Lola Narcisse?"


	6. Chapter V

"Her Queen does _not_ allow it!"

If there was anything in the world that the Scottish Queen and the Lord Chancellor of France shared in mutual interest, anything that served as a common ground for the both of those head-strong and willful politicians, it was about the safety and welfare of Lola. Those powers in French court, when at odds, would create exponential damage larger than that of a small province's warfare. If, however, put on the same side, the things they could achieve would be beyond imaginable.

Nicholas realized this much by just hearing the heated atmosphere inside the hall.

"I, _respectfully_ , second Her Majesty's motion!" Narcisse stood up and gave a nod directed at Mary's direction, which earned the glares from the Holy envoy. Noticing this, Stephan straightened his shirt and coat, fixing his haggard appearance. "With all due respect, Cardinal Lussac, I must inform you of my duties to France and the responsibilities my job brings—I cannot operate as France's Lord Chancellor when stationed in the English Court!" Nicholas raised a brow at Narcisse's exclamation.

"Well, Queen Elizabeth has mentioned _nothing_ of bringing the Lady Lola's husband, the Lord Narcisse, along to English Court, especially with the recent recovery of the King—we know the weight of his duties and responsibilities and of how much he is needed here, so we have no intentions of stealing away the person whose power and authority only comes second to that of a King's!" Narcisse's fist met the table, his jaws clenched tight as his eyes shone in fury at the damned English ambassador.

"This is absurd—she is my wife!" Narcisse barked at Nicholas as everyone in the room realize that the Englishman had the upperhand and that both Queen Mary and Stephan Narcisse were fighting a losing battle.

"And a key figure in creating long-lasting peace between our three nations—do you not realize the risk Her Majesty, the Queen Elizabeth, is taking with her decision to ask _only_ for a Scottish noblewoman?" silence had spread inside the room and Narcisse, seemingly for the first time, beg Mary for her help. "In situations like these, the most appropriate legal representative would require an Earl or a Duke—asking for your regent and brother, the Earl of Moray, could have been a possibility, a far better option than the Lady Lola but the Queen Elizabeth is as benelovent as any fair monarch would be," there were murmurd around the tablr and Narcisse felt helpless.

"And she is _my_ lady, Lord Nicholas, and the daughter of a very influential Catholic lord who rules over _and_ unites the Scottish highland lords under _my_ name, powerful people against the Protestant rule of Engalnd—she is just as important as her husband, even more so in Scottish affairs!" the room fell silent at the Queen's argument, polished and experienced politicians left blank and speechless, the Vatican's Holy envoys left astounded—Queen Mary had cemented her position as a public speaker, a politicians worthy to rule in that of a patriarchal society's government where women and their issues are the least of men's priorities.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, the English ambassador's hands shook in a fit of his poor nerves. "While that may be true, Majesty, are you certain that the Lady Lola is best to be put in your care and that of her husband's?" it started out as nervous stammering but quickly transformed into a witty quip. "Word around here at Court is that they're having some marital problems," eyes glanced over Narcisse as he closed his eyes in an effort to keep his composure, "and no matter how baseless these rumors are, the fact that you," Nicholas pointed an accusing finger at Narcisse, "Jean's legal guardian and representatives of his properties from the King, bought lands to allign yourself with an opportunity at a chance for a seat at the Privy Council when the King's health was failing!" whispers erupted from the council as Francis felt his fingers tighten into a fist.

"How could you?" it was a simple question, but the meaning behind it, the implication behind the unsaid words, rang in the minds of both Narcisse and the Council. "I've trusted you with my son and you do _this_? You've betrayed my trust and anticipated my death so you could reach out for the regency?!" watching the King spit words through gritted teeth at the Lord Chancellor of France only fanned the flames of France's instability and revealed it to everyone including the Vatican and the English. "To think that. . ." the King's voice trailed off and his fist met the table, shocking everyone in the room, especially the Queen.

" _Majesty_ —" there urgency and desperation in Narcisse' voice— _the desperation of a man who does not acknowledge the said word nor applies it to himself_ —would have meant something should the situation, the topic of the predicament, had been different. But it was about his son, and if there was one thing Francis had inherited from his mother, it was love for his family.

There was no doubt that family is Francis' greatest strenght and weakness.

"No, _don't_ —not a single word from you!" Francis had cut him off through gritted teeth. "You will _not_ have the right to speech!" Francis couldn't even bring himself to look at his subject, the betrayal had been too much. To think that he would have served as a father-figure to Jean-Phillipé, a man he thought who would have given his life and status to protect that ones he love, the man Francis thought Narcisse to be was quite unimaginable now. Facing the English ambassador, Francis found himself releasing a breath of air, "I believe that it is for the best that we let Lady Lola decide for herself the fate of her future." Mary's eyes widened, her pulse quickening at the realization that Francis was willing to gamble her friend, the mother of _his_ son, because Narcisse betrayed him ( _Something quite the standard of normalcy_!).

"Francis, I don't think that this is the wisest decision that we could make at the moment!" Mary found herself grabbing Francis' hand, her mouth spouting out words at a record time. "We should have an adequate amount of time to think this decision over, not on a _whim_ of anger," it was a soothing voice, but it was seemingly not enough to sate the anger of a father wronged. Francis remained silent and Mary's efforts remained fruitless.

"Perhaps Her Majesty, the Queen's attention should be best kept in the focus of the marital bed rather than situations like these" the Cardinal quipped dryly, his attention barely focused on the Queen. "The matters of the state should not be dictated by a bond because of the Queen's close relations to the proposed diplomat to English Court—in fact, shouldn't you be proud, Queen Mary, that your fellow Scottish woman is a possible and the most likely woman to become the new Scottish diplomat to England, therefore becoming an image, a figure-head for women's intellectual revolution?"

Mary, as a Queen, has never felt so insulted in her life. She had been belittled by someone entirely below her station because of her gender and role in society. Never had she been so insulted and angered by a man from the Holy See. "I will _not_ have this disrespect directed towards my wife, especially at my Court where I will have order!" Francis shouted over the whispering and loud murmuring, which effectively silenced the council before signalling for a page. "Have someone fetch the Lady Lola and have her brought here immediately—and I want it done quickly!" the boy stumbled out of the room and Mary's heart sunk at at the door left ajar.

The silence in the room was deafening and the tension continued to rise when Francis saw himself being avoided and ignored by his wife, and while he understands her situation, there is very little of what he could do to Narcisse at this moment. He's already put a tight leash on Narcisse, his fortune and properties were taken away from him and given to other nobles, and he couldn't have him exiled or stripped furthermore of his belongings or his job because he might anger his other nobles— _the very people who put him in power_ —because angering them is a precedent any monarch does not want.

As a husband, however, angering his wife is something— _the very last thing_ —he wants set.

The last time Francis had done something to push his wife away had proven itself to be the most dangerous and fatal decision he had ever made. His distance and secrets were so deadly to their relationship that Mary was violated by the rogue Protestants who raided the palace on Lord Aloysius Castleroy's unknowing funding, found herself so uncapable of spending time with him that she needed another man who became her lover, the threat of a Protestant English stronghold in France, and the stress of it all nearly killing him in the process—every single one of them caused by his secrets.

Secrets and distance had almost destroyed Francis' relationship with Mary—he would not allow himself to meet with the opportunity to destroy their marriage because, God-willing, they have got an entire lifetime to spend together and Francis would rather that spend it with Mary without the pain and threats of separation between them and their happiness together.

Nudging on Mary's arm and whispering soft apologies to her ear, he was met with a cold and icy look. Francis could see and feel the disappointment and anger in her glare. "You might as well have signed her death certificate because she is in absolute danger, Francis, and if she dies. . .Francis, if something happens to Lola, then it is by your hands!" immediately, Francis took Mary into his arms and apologized profusely. The nobles averted their eyes and distracted themselves with papers as their King tried to win back the favour of their Queen.

"I know that you're angry with me— _and you should be because I deserve it_ —but know that should Lola agree into becoming the new diplomat, I will take every measure to ensure her safety at the English Court," Francis held her hand and placed a chaste kiss on her hand. "Even if she is stationed at England, I will petition for her rights to practice mass, I'll send trusted guards to ensure her physical safety, and I will make sure to pull her out of the country should anything of the smallest situation threaten her position—you have my word as both your husband and King," Francis rubbed soothing circle on the palm of Mary's hand.

"You know that Lola will go to England in return for her family—she has this sense of debt to them because she brought shame to their name by becoming pregnant while unmarried!"

"You don't know that," Francis argued softly.

"I know what I've said, Francis— _Lola has nursed two of her brothers only to see them being lowered down in the ground, her mother taken away by the plague, and she has seen her sister die before her eyes_ —she will not hesitate to save the remaining family she has left in this world nor will she let the opportunity pass to serve Scotland because only knows how selfless she is," it haunted Francis, the mere possibilities that could happen to Lola while she's at England—but he can't just revoke a statement saying he agrees to consider a possible alliance with England. Not when the Vatican is at stake, when the largest Christian community can launch an attack on French borders.

He couldn't risk excommunication as the Vatican won't let the opportunity of having England as a Catholic nation once more.

But above all, he couldn't risk Mary's safety.


	7. Chapter VI

The once heavily shut gates of the _Château de Blois_ were lifted open as the carriages were being prepared for a visit to a collection of village near the palace, villages that had prospered despite being devastated by the plague just last year. The horses of the extravagant carriages were calm and steady, as if they recognized and understood the power and authority of the King and Queen of France, monarchs both of whom were in their presence, and they respected the authority of the King even as he showed vulnerability by begging to his wife, clinging to her.

"If you are leaving because you are upset," Francis began, his tone tired and desperate, his eyes begging his wife to listen. "If you are leaving because you are upset with my decision to send Lola to England as the new diplomat, then you must understand that there are no more words in my vocabulary— _May it be French, Latin, English, or Scottish!_ —that could possibly say how sorry I am," Francis refused to let go of Mary's hand, holding on to her as if she was his very lifeline, his very essence for living simply because she is.

" _Francis_ ," Mary was tracing the panelings painted gold before she turned around and gently placed her palm against Francis' cheek, caressing it with her thumb. "We have been given a _miraculous_ second chance!" she leaned up and placed a kiss on his lips, looking at him lovingly. "I will not spend that chance by hating you or being upset with you because no one knows how long a time I will get to spend with you—if Elizabeth's offer of peace is truly sincere as her ambassador claims it to be, then I am forever in your and Lola's debt," Mary offered hopefully, taking Francis' hand into her's. "Let's not dwell on the things that could only bring pain and misunderstandings to us," Francis, defeated, helped Mary into her carriage with a sigh. . .much like how he had sent off their friend, Lola, to England almost a month ago.

"If you aren't upset with me, then why are you leaving for the villages on the eve of celebration for Michaelmas? Why won't you stay with me, here at the _château_ and celebrate _here_ with me?" it was a simple question, it was not supposed to hold some sort of depth into it, but in the end, it did have a deeper question to it, a deeper meaning to its words. Francis' questions had implied something and Mary was sure that it meant not only her leaving for charity's purpose.

And because of the question, Mary's eyes had widened and small giggle escaped her lips. "Is this," she gestured to the distance between them. "Is _all_ of this convincing because you've been thinking that I'm upset with you?" Francis' silence happened to be an answer that sufficed to Mary's question. " _Oh_ ," Mary pressed a finger or two on her lips to prevent her boisterous laughter from attracting scrutinizing eyes. "Francis," her voice was soft, calm, and gentle as Mary slowly removed Francis' tightened grip on her hand.

All silent and eyes directed at the ground below as if wishing for the earth to eat him up, Francis finally looked up to his wife and had his eyes begging for her to stay. "Think of Jean," there was a teasing tone entwined in his voice, but at the same time, there was the all too obvious need of Francis for his wife to stay with him. "Having spend his Michaelmas without both his mother and godmother—both father _and_ son will be terribly lonely throughout the day," Mary, instead of finding it pitiful, found it amusing that Francis was baiting her to stay by using his son—what should have been a poor, cheap, and overly-used political trick was turned endearing and adorable for Mary.

Then suddenly, Francis' eyes were filled with worry.

"It's much safer here in the castle, as well. Our decision to allign ourselves with a Protestant nation as allies is garnering much political backlash from the public. It will be better if you push your event until we know the public has settled down from their. . . _initial_ aggression against the idea," Francis offered, trying to appear like the King who knew best, but it came out as a husband who was already missing his wife before she even left him. "Now is probably a time where we should stay and keep a low profile," it was an ambitious offer, but a last resort Francis used well.

"It doesn't matter—I'll have Catherine and Claude with me, even if they're a carriage away," even as a Queen in her own right and as a Queen by marriage to a King, Mary never had the power to break away from Royal customs. The Crown takes precedence, they say in France, which means that Mary would have to ride alone while her mother-in-law, Catherine, and her sister-in-law, Claude, would be riding together in their carriage.

"You'll be very lonely, as I will be during the banquet for what is a King without his Queen?" Mary, who just stood there, pressed her lips against his, Francis taking every moment to cherish his wife. "By God, it's like you'll be taking your leave for years to come when it's only for weeks, not even a month's length!" truth be told, Francis and Mary were different kind of rulers—they aren't used to distance, may it be the physical kind or the emotional kind, placed between them and God knows only how long Francis could take before he would ride off towards the horizon in search for his wife.

"Well, I can promise you that time will fly by like the wind—I will be back inside your arms before you even notice my absence!" it was an optimistic idea for both Francis and Mary, an idea he would like to hold on to but what he felt was quite the opposite.

"I'm already feeling your absence," Francis murmured under his breath and tried to memorize Mary's scent. He would later feel her absence in their bed as he would sleep with this coldness that would not go away unless it is his wife that stays by his side, this loneliness that is fixed by him like a shadow until Mary would come like the sun and remove all the signs of darkness there is inside the French Court— _yes_ , Francis thought to himself at the moment, Mary as herself and her heart is like a fire burning so bright whereever she may go. Mary is bright and majestic like the sun, which is regal and full of hope.

And however selfish his thoughts may be, Francis could not, even by his powers as the King of France, keep his wife by his side all the time because, like the sun, she would have to shine somewhere else. He would just have to hold on with the knowledge that she, like the sun, will come back and rise by his side, illuminating the world around him. He will just have to wait in the dark before he sees his light, a fire that has burned so bright for France and for him.

"I love you," it was out of placed, but with Mary, it was always right. When it was about them and their relationship as husband and wife, it would always be right because their love would justify it. "Don't keep me waiting for long, you might just hear of news about a King gone mad in search for his beautiful wife," Mary chuckled before Francis took Mary's hand and placed a gentle kiss upon her soft skin. "Let me help you into the carriage," the door creaked open as Mary used Francis' hand as a support— _As she always have leaned on Francis as her main support_ —to get inside the carriage before the footman closed the door, dividing the King and Queen.

Mary, still looking out the window, pressed her hand against the glass when she realized that she had never replied? She mouthed to Francis, the glass fogging to with each breath she took. ' _I love you_ ,' she mouthed and Francis grinned and placed his hand on her's and they stayed that way until the carriage started it's journery towards the villages.

* * *

Claude was wide awake and remained content with what she had; a container filled with delicasies, playing cards with entertaining symbols, and her mind left wondering at how her mother could sleep at such an awful position with the carriage going over a rocky path in the forest? Those were the wonderful questions that plagued the mind and thoughts of the Princess Claude de Valois when the carriage was brought to a sharp and an abrupt stop, effectively waking her mother, Catherine de Medici, who sat upright immediately, her eyes showing no signs of sleep.

"What happened? Where are we? Why have we stopped?" Claude could only sigh in exaspperation at her mother's questions being rapidly shot at her. She couldn't have possibly known what was going on because she's inside the carriage. Claude wanted to scream out loud, _'I am as clueless as you are, Mother!_ ' but she kept her composure.

Catherine continued to ask and Claude continued to peer out the window when, _suddenly_ , the door flew open, revealing a guard and a footman. "Majesty, Your Highness," the two dipped their heads low and their breathing remained uneven as they continued to pant. "I'm afraid there has been an accident, Your Majesty, with the carriage of the Queen," Catherine's eyes widened at this and immediately, Claude caught on to the sudden change in her mother. "As you know, the Crown's carriage takes precedence and the rebels must have caught the carriage by waiting to ambush in the forest," though however detailed the explanation is, one question continued to plague the Queen Mother and the Princess' minds.

"Where is the Queen?" Claude asked the dreaded question.

"It happened all too fast, Majesty," the footman's accent was thick, but the message ran clear in their minds.

" _Where_ is the Queen?" Catherine pressed further, the intimidation probably too much for them to handle.

"We don't know, Your Majesty, the carriage is in flames and there is blood all over the ground and the Queen is missing!" soon, both Catherine and Claude were made aware with the running and commanding of the guards, the dimly lit torches that penetrated the forests, the loud footsteps and the blood on the footman's uniform.


	8. Chapter VII

It was something of the norm to see the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici, to do some form of work. Work that usually includes overseeing the aesthetic products for herself, signing papers regarding the state and nation, executing people through creative means, creating lethal poisons with Nostradamus. . .the list goes on!

But never, in Claude's imagination, would she have foreseen the day— _Somehow, she even doubts that Nostradamus could have ever predicted this as well!_ —when Catherine de Medici would set out on the muddy terrains of a forest in search of a woman she had once hated. It was simply not her character to waltz around a forest with no promise of security to find someone she believed would have brought death to her brother, Francis.

But there she was, stealing a torch from a flabbergasted guard, off to venture the forest that is adjacent to the Blood Woods where many enemies of the Crown lays in waiting to strike at a senior member of the Royal family. Who better to kill and at what better opportunity when it's pitch dark and the old Queen Mother is all alone with no witness to burden one more murder?

A sigh found its way up to escape Claude's lips as she lifted her gown and decided to be the loyal daughter she, somehow, is and followed her mother into the dark and rather dirty woods, a fact that brought a groan out of Claude. "Mother!" she hurried after the light and the voices had faded out in the distance as the blurry figure of Claude's dearest mother finally cleared up.

" _Oh_ ," Catherine had turned around to see who had followed her, but she knew by heart whose voice it was. "Why did you follow me?" Claude could see the concern etched into her voice and her eyes. But there was something else hidden into her hurried actions. "You aren't safe here—go back to the carriage where there are guards," it was a simple message said before Claude found herself standing alone in the dark.

"I'm not helpless, you know," Claude felt a sense of pride in herself for enduring the mosquito-infected bogs of the forest and despite the darkness that surrounds her, she managed to locate her mother again. "Someone's been teaching me how to look after myself," her mother turned around and raised a brow, a scoff barely escaping Catherine's lips. " _What_? It's true!" Claude argued and wondered deep to herself—how does one convince Catherine de Medici?

"Oh, but you are, Claude, that's why we have guards posted around the castle at every corner," Catherine continued to hack through the forest in search of her daughter-in-law when Claude realized something, how it suddenly fits every possible question and answers it all correctly with. Claude sees it fit together like a puzzle piece; the sudden determination to find Mary, the need to find Mary.

It's like the news she's heard of her mother back when she was strolling around in Paris, of how there was news of her mother, the then Queen of France, doing everything she can to get rid of her brother's fiancée because of some premonition of bad luck. The rumors Claude has been hearing about her mother gone mad in her attempts to rid France of her responsibilities to Scotland.

"He's seen something, hasn't he?" Claude, for a moment, felt bold and powerful when she saw her mother tense up and pause for a moment. "Nostradamus, he's seen something and now you're doing everything you can to make sure it happens," there was a sudden twitch in Catherine's form that made Claude's mood and pulse drop. "Or you're trying to prevent something _from_ happening?" it was a small voice, but Claude was sure that Catherine heard it well enough because her mother turned around.

"Yes," it was a small voice, but the answer rang loud in Claude's mind, running amok and wild in her head as it replayed in her mind. "Nostradamus had a vision about Francis' death should he leave the castle, and when the danger had passed, Nostradamus saw _another_ vision—he saw another family, probably those _vile_ Bourbons, ruling France should something happen to Mary, _anything_ that would force Mary to leave Francis' side and that most certainly does _not_ exclude death as one of its many options for Mary!"

Claude immediately fell silent. The weight of the information given to her was too much to handle, at least on one giving like this. The world suddenly spun and all of the signs earlier, the oddities her mother had displayed, had made sense; why her mother had suddenly became so concerned about Mary's kidnapping and disappearance, why her mother is so frantic in her search for the young Queen.

"If you knew this all along, then why were you so silent regarding this trip? You could have prevented this!" family was the one redeeming quality about Claude's mother, but to think of her withholding such information that could save their family's right to the French throne because of some ulterior motive will truly shake her world. The Catherine Claude knows is the person who will put her children's rights above anything. The mother Claude knows is the person who will put her child's reign and protect it above everything else.

What happened?

"I know what you're thinking, and it's best you know that intervention has never done anything good, especially to prophecies like these— _the moment you take matters into your own hands, you will tear the very fabric of reality and everything will backfire_ —it's best that you only. . . _influence_ certain decisions," Claude could only imagine what those particular decisions were. "And it turns out that the only place where they can be truly safe is inside the castle where I can keep an eye on everything—the only place where _all_ of us can be at sound rest," Catherine continued to search through the forest when there was rustling by the bushes.

Immediately, Claude tensed up and tried to remember the lessons Leith had given her. She had been branded by her guards and governesses as a _glorious_ troublemaker raining hell upon those tasked to put up with her. Now is the time, the opportune moment in which she could proudly put herself up to the task of proving the rumors right and deserved. _Those assassins_ , Claude thought to herself, _would simply regret their decision of abducting Mary, Queen of Scotland._

But then again, Claude remembered to herself, that her newly acquired skills will only be of use should the men she'll be facing are unarmed and without a firearm or any weapon of physical leverage. Otherwise, there's a rather slim chance that Claude will actually be able to land a single beating on the abductor and manage to get away with it, even if scatted from the encounter.

"By God," it was a soft moan from Catherine and immediately, Claude rushed to her mother's side only to see a dead body and an unconscious Mary. Catherine crouched down and placed two fingers at the base of Mary's hand. "It's weak, her pulse—but it's there nonetheless," Catherine gave Claude only one look before she went off running. "Guards!" her screaming could be heard from the nearby towns as she frantically waved the torch by sides in hopes of attracting the attention of the rather dim-witted guards who were too far away to take a clue that they're needed.

Claude crouched down to get a closer look at the scene covered in sheer darkness. The man had been dead, motionless and lifeless on the ground with blood pooling around him. There was a part inside of Claude that was repulsed by the sight— _a part that urged Claude to forget about this and go with her mother_ —but another part inside of her, the _greater_ part of her was pushing her towards Mary and trying to figure out some ways on how she could help Mary to get up. Claude had one clear objective on her mind and that is to get Mary to safer ground.

That was when she noticed the blood-soaked dress.

It was truly a moment that managed to drain the color and courage from Claude's face. The tree Mary had leaned against was dripping with her blood as there was a wound, a stab wound near the small of her back. It was only then when Claude noticed the rather pale complexion. There was only one ringing thought that mattered in Claude's mind—Mary had lost a rather frightening amount of blood and the only person she knows who can possibly remedy that is her mother's seer and healer and her most trusted co-conspirator, Nostradamus.

Claude grabbed Mary's arm and tried to shake her awake, but it was fruitless and in vain. Feeling helpless, she ripped a portion of fabric from her dress and applied pressure on Mary's wound. "Guards!" Claude screamed at the top of her lungs, her lungs tightening from the pressure and anxiety that has built up inside of her. "Guards, the _Queen_ is injured!" she screamed again and again until her throat went sore from the loud yelling. "I need Nostradamus!" Claude's hands were already soaked from the blood and she felt her lips tremble as a cry escaped her lips.

It felt like an eternity before Bash, Nostradamus, and a group of guards finally came with flash torches illuminating the forest effectively. "Help her, _please_ ," tears were already streaming down Claude's face. Never had she seen a person so close to the brink of death, and never would she have known that the first person she would see fighting for her life be Mary. "She's _wounded_ ; her back has been stabbed and we found her like this!" the guards bent down and lifted Mary up.

Claude felt scared in the midst of all this. The feeling of seeing someine just this morning and knowing that she may be gone the very next second terrified her. But above all, she thought of Francis. Claude knew that her brother accepted Mary's short-lived affaur with Condé because he knew that he could win her once their old wounds started healing— _Mary blamed Francis for the raping and Francis blamed himself for what happened to Mary_ —and they could start forgetting. But what would happen to her brother should Mary die?

Claude shuddered at the thought of her brother, a man so strong and dependable, broken down to a point of depression or something _much_ worse than that?

The cracking of twigs brought Claude out of her deep thinking and back to reality, only to see the guards lifting Mary up while Nostradamus supported her back. "Remember to keep her back alligned at _this_ position!" he barked orders at the guards while examining the wound. "It appears to be—" Nostradamus suddenly stopped and looked up to the roof of the forest dimly illuminated by the torches. Claude's mother gasped when Nostradamus lifted a finger to wipe a drop of blood from his cheek and suddenly, everything became clear to Claude.

She's heard of the prophecy numerous times from Mary and Francis but like her brother, she's never really given much thought of fates and destinies except the ones regarding her romantic life. Though she acknowledges the inarguable accuracy of her mother's seer, she couldn't help but think that his prophecies wouldn't come to pass. She and Francis shared a common belief that you should take control of the life you've been given and no one could possibly foresee something like this. Life is so complex that to see the future of one's life is so. . .unthinkable! Impossible, even.

But Nostradamus has defied the odds and done the impossible—the sky raining blood, the ominously-lit forest, the glowing tree—all of these seen today.

"By God," Claude heard her mother mutter under her breathe. "The prophecy. . .Mary shouldered the prophecy!"


	9. Chapter VIII

The bustling halls of the _Château de Blois_ had been ringing with noise and heavy footsteps, yet the moment the noise had disappeared stopped, Francis could not keep his eyes from the wooden doors that kept him from knowing what was happening outside the meeting room. The moment the heavy noise disappeared was also the moment when the feeling, a feeling that settled in the gut of your stomach and refused to remove itself from worrying you, made itself noticeable.

However, when the doors flew open to reveal a rather tired messenger, a man who served as a secretary in his mother's employment, Francis tensed up and all the talks of politics and the matters of the state had flew out of his head and into the open window. The young man was panting and his breathing as ragged, as if he ran all the way from the courtyard towards the topmost floor to deliver news and Francis couldn't help this feeling that somethings wrong.

And he was right—the words that flew out of the messenger's mouth, just four words of single syllables, managed to shake the very foundation of Francis' life and belief and being.

"The Queen is injured!"

Francis found himself running out of the meeting room and into the halls of his home, ignoring the bowing servants and the nobles asking for a moment of his time. Francis ran against the flow of people and pushed against the people who blocked his way. Every turn that brought him nearer to Mary, Francis felt this unimaginable guilt and his heart hammering loudly against his chest. He felt his head grow dizzy as he ran out of breath, running towards the infirmary where his life was.

There he stood, in front of two wooden doors, his mouth and throat suddenly dry as an arid desert as he felt his fist grow heavy when he lifted his hand against the wooden door and rapped his knuckles against it. Before long, the door had opened and the first thing Francis took notice was the metallic scent of blood that filled the air. "Hello?" his voice quavered as he searched the infirmary for a sign of life, for a sign of Nostradamus or his wife. "Nostradamus?" he called out and peeked his head through the white curtains that divided the room. "Nostradamus. . .oh, God— _Mary_!" there was this rough sensation that was building up in Francis' chest that made him press his fist against his mouth to prevent a sob from escaping his lips.

She was pale as the sheets that covered her body that was so motionless, so lifeless that it scared Francis, it terrified him more than he can imagine.

"Your Majesty," a piped up from behind Francis, a raspy voice that belonged to Nostradamus. Immediately, Francis turned around to see his mother's healer, and although his mouth had not uttered a single word, his eyes and expression screamed a thousand words and a million questions. Fortunately, Nostradamus seemed to have caught on and answered the question that has been plaguing the King of France heavily. "Although the Queen has lost a rather frightening amount of blood, she held on like a true Scot and she survived!" a breath of relief escaped Francis' quivering lips. A teary laughter graced the atmosphere as Francis looked at his wife. "Although the stab wound was deep, no organs were ruptured and the spinal chord remained intact—thus, _both_ the Queen and the child will survive and are expected to make a full recovery by the fortnight," suddenly, Francis' head shot through like an arrow and felt himself jolt up.

The shock on Francis' face meant one thing to Nostradamus.

"The Queen has not told you of her condition?" Francis could only stare at Nostradamus in shock and switch between the healer and his wife.

"Child?" it felt like a wondrous word to pass through his lips, Francis thought to himself as he stared in shock and disbelief at his wife. "You mean she's. . ." Notradamus nodded before excusing himself out of the infirmary and leaving the King with his Queen an unborn child, a life they had created together, the personification of their love, the very epitome and embodiment of their union and love for one another. "You're pregnant," Francis whispered slowly and gently to himself and to the sleeping form of his wife.

He gently reached out for Mary's hand and placed a chaste kiss on it before holding it against his cheek.

"We're going to be parents," awe and shock still coursed through his mind as he stared expectanty at Mary's stomach and gave out a shaky laughter. "Perhaps we will have a son," Francis found himself saying happily to himself as tears of joy trickled down his face, "James Charles would be a name fitting for our _petit dauphin_ who will take after me and yet think like his mother in every possible way," Francis smiled to himself as he pictured a young boy with dark curls and blue eyes. "Or maybe a daughter with straight blonde hair, equally stubborn and competetive as her mother, and a natural-born sailor like her father?" Mary's hand had twitched and Francis felt the warmth her finger brought. "And we will name her Margaret Anne, perhaps? Princess Anne de Valois does have a nice ring to it," and he could see them playing by the courtyard, chasing after one another.

Francis sucked a breath of air in.

This had been their dream, from a time that seemed so long ago. A dream they've considered completely impossible and so far away. Now, it's within arms' reach and Francis found hope and color and meaning in life. "I can already see them playing, Mary, and their voices so young and carefree, I can hear their voices." Francis grabbed the loose ends of the blanket that covered Mary and tucked her in it. "I can already see the future, Mary, our happy future—and it is so beautiful," Francis stared at his wife's relaxed face.

There was a moment of silence as Francis dipped his head low and rested it on the edge of the bed. He is determined to stay by his side and become the first person Mary sees when she wakes.

"Now, all I need is you," and the sleepiness in Francis' eyes enveloped him in darkness.


	10. Chapter IX

Mary's screams were muffled by a blood-stained hand and the next thing she could remember was running through the woods without anyone but her captor. Then, she remembered the nerves inside her hands acting up when she stabbed her abductor, a victory short-lived when she found herself stabbed in the small of her back with a dagger. Black dots danced around her vision as she suddenly found out that standing was a tad bit too much for a pregnant woman stabbed—Mary lost control of her body and she plummeted towards the ground and found herself uncomfortably against the trunk of a tree near the lifeless corpse of her supposed-assailant.

Then, there were orange bright lights that illuminated the forest, and voices that sounded so familiar to Mary and yet so distant and far away. She felt like she was being lifted up in the air, the small of her back feeling cold with the air blowing against her blood-soaked dress before feeling a stinging pain, something like an open wound being jabbed. It was excruciating and unbearable until she realized that it was not the wound that had been hurting her, but her back. Mary realized this when gentle hands had straightened her back in midair.

From that point on, Mary couldn't feel. She couldn't hear the distant voices anymore or the gentle hands. She felt like she was trapped in binds of silence and darkness and she couldn't possibly break free from its hold. She also felt immense heat, she felt so much heat like she was being burned inside a wicker man even if the druids of Scotland barely commit human sacrifices. Mary began to give up, she could feel her hold on life slowly slip away through her fingers like water. She felt her head grow heavy as the minutes passed and the darkness spun around her.

Mary was ready to give up. Mary was ready to die when she remembered that her life was not the only existance at stake. Her unborn child mattered as well and she couldn't condemn the life she and Francis had created. Mary decides to hold on—she would fight because she is not so cruel as to create life and deprive it of a fighting chance to live in the world. _I am a mother_ , Mary thought to herself determinedly, _and I will not be the cause of my child's death_.

Aside from seeing Francis' face as he smiled upon their small family, it suddenly became clear to Mary that she had another driving force in life. She was not only a Queen of Scotland and France, nor was she only a wife to her husband—she is a mother, and as _all_ mothers would ( _Catherine is a rather fine example_.) fearlessly dangle their lives at a cliff's edge, she would do so wholehearted. If there was truly one thing Mary and Catherine had in common, it was their undying and selfless love for their families. . .and Mary is not one to break away with old habits and traits and traditions.

She will fight for her life if it meant saving her child.

She will _not_ be a type of person who would create life, a manifestation of love and marital union, only to deprive it of its naturally given right, a _fighting chance_ to survive and to live in the world. Mary wants her child to grow up in a household where love reigns above all, where she would be able to show her child, a babe growing so slowly in her womb, the love she is so wanting to display. Mary wants to have the ability, the opportunity to show the people, her court and subjects her pride and joy, her life and future.

So, Mary forced herself to find this pull in her stomach, the strength inside of her to simply open her eyes. An ability once so easily done now so achieving if made. Yet it was too hard—there was pain in every attempt as she felt a whimper escape her lips when a sound replayed in her ear, a voice that sounded so familiar, comforting, and soothing. A voice that rejuvenated her soul and restored strength. "Now, all I need is you," that phrase resounded and replayed time and time again.

Finally, with one last pull of strength, her eyes flew open but as soon as Mary woke up, she had shut her eyes again. The light the chandelier emitted was far too much for someone who had been asleep for quite some time. A groan escaped her lips as she felt her head grow heavy and her vision blurred. Mary felt the heat and the dizziness take over when she saw curls upon curls of golden blonde hair, hair her fingers were so used to comb through. There was one resounding thought in Mary's mind. "Francis," she croaked softly to him.

There was no reaction and Francis remained asleep.

Willing up strength even if words, mere whispers of Francis' name felt like the icy stabs of sharp metal dagger through her throat, a throat as dry as an arid desert of the African continent. " _Francis_ ," her voice broke and felt black dots dance around her vision. The pain was too much as she tried breathe evenly. Mary found herself weak and frail, a point that made Mary's heart rate quicken—her child. . .has she failed as a mother again?

But then, at the corner of her closing eyes, Mary saw Francis lift his head and search the room for the sound of her voice. To Francis, Mary's voice felt like a painfully realistic dream. A disappointed sigh escaped his lips when Mary released a groan of pain. "Mary?" slowly, her eyes opened and the first sight Mary saw, the most striking trait Francis shared with the rest of the powerful House of Valois—blue eyes.

Slowly, Francis reached out for Mary, his hands shaking as it came closer to Mary's cheeks, but when his hand, rather the tip of his fingers touch her pale cheeks, a soft tearful laughter escaped his lips as Mary released a breath of air. "You're real," a lone tear stroke Francis' face as he watched his wife. "You're here—you're _alive_!" Francis' hands flew around Mary's frame. Even in Mary's weakened state and wounds, she found it so comforting to feel the heat that Francis' body gave her. It gave her such joy and security knowing she was in Francis' arms.

"Last time I've checked, yes—I'm quite alive," Mary found the ability to lighten the atmosphere by cracking a joke, but Francis had none of it.

Francis shifted in his position and slowly, _reluctantly_ , released Mary from his arms. "Your fever has not broken yet," he muttered under his breath and stood up. "I'll call for Nostradamus to give you your herbs and lemon-water," Mary, quickly grabbed her husband's arm and clung unto it with all her strength. "Mary?" his voice laced with concern as he tried to think of something wrong.

"Don't go," it was a silent whisper, but Francis heard it nonetheless as he replayed her lips spelling it out for her. "Stay with me, please," there was reluctance in Francis' face. "Keep me company," Francis found himself frozen on the ground before willing himself to move towards the door to summon a page-boy to fetch Nostradamus.

"I'm not going anywhere, not without you," Francis dragged the stool closer to the bed and rubbed soothing circles on his wife's palm. "I've had quite some time to reflect earlier when I've realized that you've kept a secret from me, a wonderful secret," a small smile graced Mary's lips as Francis' hand found its way towards her flat stomach. "You're pregnant and you've managed to keep it a secret from me—to think that I was going to surprise you with a trip to Paris when you return to court!" a small laugh escaped Mary's lips, and although her spirits had been lifted, the pain resounded in her mind.

But no matter how joyful Francis was—Who wouldn't be at the knowledge where your wife, the love and very core of your life, is carrying and would soon give birth to a child?—there was one question that ran rampant in his mind, a question that refused to let him settle or rest peacefully.

"Why would you keep your pregnancy a secret?" there was silence inside the room and Mary found it hard to look at her husband.

The expectant gaze was never reciprocated, but there was a small voice. "The last time I was pregnant, Francis, it gave us so much hope and I've seen the pain and sorrow in your eyes, the happiness shattering in your soul when your mother broke the news of my miscarriage. . .I wanted to be sure that when I tell you of my pregnancy, you can hold on to the fact that you will get to hold our child in your arms," Francis' eyes softened and gave Mary his warmest smile, his hand covering her cheek and wiping away the stray tears. "I couldn't get you to hope so much, to invest so much only to lose it all in one instance," Mary saw how he had laughed, how he had rejoiced and how he had been so broken.

Francis thought that Mary would never see, but she would hear the pained cries in the hallways or the silent messages to the errand boys to set up candles at the _Basilica-de-Saint-Denis_ for their unborn child, a life taken away so soon.

"To what? Hear of you pregnancy when you've miscarried?"

"Only so that I could save you the pain of becoming too attached," Mary offered hopefully, but Francis shook his head and took both of Mary's hands and held them in his. "I've kept it a secret so that when, God forbid, I lose the baby, you won't be as broken as you were before," Mary's hair kept falling into her eyes, but Francis tucked the strands behind her ear. "Are you angry?" it was a silent question that would have been for ants, but her husband heard it nonetheless.

"I'm not mad, just worried—if that would happen, I would be so powerless to comfort you," Francis caressed Mary's face and smiled lovingly. "If I was so broken that time, you were so much more than that, and while you are the strongest woman I know, how could a mother recover from the loss of her child?" Mary stared at her stomach and whispered a small prayer to whoever was listening. "I could not let you stand alone in such moment of vulnerability," Francis whispered as the doors to the infirmary flew open to reveal the same page with a tray of food and a herbal tea.

"Place it on the nightstand, please," Mary smiled tiredly at the boy before he left the room. "And I don't want the people to look up at me expectantly only to judge me for being a failure of a mother—a mother who could not care for her children before they are even born," it had a bitter twang to her voice and Francis resented every minute of her self-lamentation. "Please keep it a secret for now," a sigh was released and Francis slowly nodded his head.

"But when you start showing, I'm afraid I can't keep the rumors from growing," Francis teased as he lifted the bowl of soup from the tray and started to feed his wife. "Until then, you should focus on your recovery—Nostradamus said that your wounds and fever would be over by the fortnight," Francis lifted the spoon from the soup and brought the silverware to Mary's lips. "I can't have my pregnant wife on an empty stomach while being sick, now could I?"

Mary gagged at the taste and shut her eyes when she swallowed he offending soup and tea. Francis laughed at her reaction and fought off a boisterous fit from escaping his lips. "Now, you shall experience how I've felt like when ingesting those wretched little weeds you called pills!" Mary brought her hand to her lips to prevent a rather disastrous laughter laced with herbal tea.


	11. Chapter X

Francis released a deep sigh before he bade his wife goodbye and started dressing himself for a meeting. Apparently, there were some English merchants seeking business opportunities in France and Scotland due to the alliance brought by Mary's decision to sign her claim to the English throne invalid in the name of peace between the British Isles and of France.

What irks Francis to the bone was the fact that his subjects, his disappointingly powerful nobles, thought it was what Mary owed to France. Mary's English cause, a predicament she has never wanted nor directly put herself in, has been adding up to France's expenses. While it is true, the war with the English on Scotland's behalf has become a drain on the French money, it is also _their_ war he is fighting—while the war between England and Scotland has been an open issue in Europe and the colonies, France is no stranger to territorial disputes with an English monarch especially when the Tudor King, Henry VIII claimed the his Kingdom as his own.

What the people cannot comprehend and refuse to realize is that Mary traded one of her most precious possessions to end, not only her country's warfare with Elizabeth, but also to end England's claim to the French throne.

"Francis," Mary lifted herself up on the bed, clutching a blanket to cover herself as her voice jarred her husband back to reality. "You'll be late for your meeting if you keep _staring_ at St. Anthony's portrait," there was a hidden tone behind the teasing. A question that asked Francis, ' _Are you alright?_ ' as he bent down and kissed his wife's temple, something that made Mary's grow wide and her husband's initial sense of duty to attend the meeting vanish into thin air. Her smile, Francis thought to himself as he fixed his trousers and belt, is something he could watch from dusk till dawn.

The French King chuckled to himself as he took a deep breath of air. "Well, he's always watching us fervently, I think that my glares are quite well-deserved," Mary laughed softly and sunk back into the feather-filled pillows and matress as Francis stared outside the window, thinking of the beautiful weather. "It's such a pity that I have to spend my whole afternoon with those dreary nobles," Francis sighed wistfully and mocked regret, and in a way, he truly does. The thought of having to spend so much time away from his wife.

"Well, at least you're actually going to _do_ something," Francis felt himself give Mary a sheepish smile as he buttoned up his vest. "Being on bedrest while smothered by Catherine was not what I had in mind for this week or for the next one to come," old habits die hard for Nostradamus as he's told Catherine of Mary's pregnancy while coming to terms with the Scottish Queen's wishes of keeping her condition a secret for until further notice. "I'll have to spend my whole day in bed or eating that offensive soup and, _ugh_ ," Francis laughed at his wife's expression, "that _tea_ is horrid! If I wouldn't have known better, I'd suspect it to be one of Catherine's vile poisons!" he smiled at his wife before heading for the door.

"Would you like me to pass something on to your council?" it was agreed— _after much debate_ —that Francis would shoulder Scottish affairs while his wife recovered. "Any topic you might want to be covered during the meeting?" fixing his collar to his taste, Francis opened the door wide and stared at Mary expectantly.

"Just about the land reforms for the druids and farmers," Mary's face brightened. "And remember the renewed trade deals with Portugal for timber and to create deals with England," Mary smiled before a page entered the room, carrying a tray of what seemed to be porridge or oats and her arch-nemesis, the soup and herbal tea.

* * *

Francis pushed aside the ledgers and the journals containing Scottish issues and passed them until his brother-in-law, Robert Stewart, the Earl of Orkney. "Now that we've discussed these issues and suggested a reasonable amount of solutions, I'll have to pass this to the Earl of Moray's very capable hands," he gave the Scottish ambassador a nod before grabbing new ledgers containing French issues. "Lord Narcisse," the tired man would have glared at Francis should he be a commoner and not a King of France, "I want you to give me a summative report about the Bourbons in Navarre, especially Antoine regarding his reaction and answer to our very generous _offer_ ," the once proud and mighty Lord Chancellor of France stumbled as he stood up.

Least to say, Stephan Narcisse became a mere shell of the man he used to be. Stuttering and slurring, it was obvious that he was feeling the after-effects of his heavy drinking. Lately, he showed no signs of Lord Narcisse, the politically ambitious man. Instead, he showed the drunkard Stephan, a man who lost his wife due to his own actions. "Antoine sent a letter to the Queen Mother during her stay at the villages near Navarre and has written that he accepts the hereditary position of becoming the lieutenant general for France in exchange for official peace and his claim being pushed back in favor of any living member of the House of Valois," Francis smiled to himself.

It seems like everything he and Mary had been hoping for is nearly attained, Francis thought to himself as he signaled for Narcisse to sit.

"Is there anything else that should be brought to light?" Francis asked, and while no one answered, he dismissed the meeting when, suddenly, knocks filled the air before the doors opened. "What is it?" Francis asked as he stood up, the page bowing deeply at the sight of nobles and the most senior member of the Royal Family—the King.

"The merchants from England has arrived, Your Majesty," Francis nodded and the nobles stood up to follow their King towards the throne room where, outside, the merchants were lined up to greet the King.

The crier announced the merchants as they've entered, bringing gifts of wealth and size. "Introducing, His Highness," Francis raised himself up, curious as to who the Royal merchant was, " _the_ Lord Darnley, Henry Stuart!" the man sauntered into the halls, bringing servants who carried wooden chests, displaying traits of both a Tudor and a Stuart, Francis had felt this feeling in his stomach that told him something wasn't quite right.


	12. Chapter XI

Francis had a handful of reasons to be wary of his wife's cousin as he offered his hand for Henry Stuart to shake—Henry's father had been accused of treason by his mother-in-law, Marie de Guise, in his wife's name, another reason is that he is heavily influenced by Protestantism while being a Roman Catholic, and the last reason is that Darnley, much like his Mary, is in line for both the Scottish and the English throne. Francis knew better than to lower his walls to a possible usurper to his wife's throne, a person who could probably execute her line.

"Majesty," Henry kissed Francis' hand before bowing low. "One cannot describe the grandeur of the _Château de Blois_ by merely hearing words," there was a smirk in his lips as he turned around to examine the halls of the throne room. "But I understand why those travelers cannot utter a word of description for they have probably been left speechless by the elegance and perfection of the masterpiece your grandfather, François I, has crafted," Francis gave Darnley a tight smile before the latter waved his hand in the air and presented a statue of him and Mary.

It was a most beautiful sight.

"There were talks of a romantic scene in your household a few months ago, Majesty, talks of a dance most precious and endearing that atists and sculptors of Italy needed to immortalize in their works," it clicked in Francis' mind, the memory of his illness and what seemed like his last dance with Mary. He remembered wanting to take another course, to dance through another song when his knees had failed him and nearly collapsed in front of French Court. It was due to Mary's decisive and swift thinking that they managed to turn the tides of war when the gasps escaped their guests' lips.

A King of France happened to be so in love with his wife that he bowed down to her, a woman. It was a scene in which a husband puts his wife first.

"Yes, I remember that particular dance with Mary," Francis found himself saying as he looked at the portraits and the statue of their immortalized dancing. "And I agree wholehearted that it is a moment most precious," he smiled as he began to notice a small detail—Francis has not danced with Mary under the stars of the Louvre Palace or eaten freshly picked oranges from Nice yet, and although his pregnant wife shouldn't be dancing in her condition, he would slowly fulfill their wishes. "My wife will be most pleased," Francis gave Darnley a smile, a warm smile that happened to be genuine had he not remember that the man in front of him is possibly an usurper.

"Speaking of Her Majesty," Francis felt himself tense up. "I would like to inquire as to where the Queen is—I would like to pay my respects as she is both my cousin and sovereign Queen, surely I would not want to seem without my manners in the court of her husband where I am only a guest," there was a heavy feeling in Francis' stomach when Darnley produced a letter from his vest. "Also, I have a letter regarding some issues regarding Scottish finances her brother, the Earl of Moray, tasked me to deliver safely into her hands," Francis caught the embedded meaning in his words—he would not give the letter to anyone _but_ Mary as he realized his ulterior motive.

Henry Stuart, the Lord Darnley is not visiting French Court for his businesses' purpose. He is here for an audience with his wife.

And that his looking around earlier, in the guise of complimenting the fixtures of his home was actually his scouting for Mary's presence.

With a tight smile and a determined will to prevent such an audience between Darnley and his wife, Francis held out his hand expectantly and his eyes shone with authority. He is a King, and Henry is merely a guest of a foreign court, _his_ court. "I am actually planning to retire early to our chambers after this meeting— _I am a bit worn out and, admittedly, quite **terribly** missing my wife_ —perhaps I could deliver James' letter to Mary for you and tell you of her reactions during the banquet later this evening," Francis could see the anger in Darnley's eyes as his jaws fixed hard. It was hard for Francis to fight off the grin forming on his lips as the yellow parchment was landed on his hand.

Darnley was obviously a man not used to being dismissed before getting what he wanted.

"Please, send my regards to Her Majesty," Darnley bowed low and refused to meet Francis' eyes as he was ushered out of the room by his Swiss guards.

Alone in the room, he opened the letter and Francis saw nothing of relevance—it was either a front or that he's truly being paranoid as he read on the letter from his brother-in-law asking for his wife's approval in a negotiation with Bohemians about timber wood. Despite being a King, Francis knows to himself the heavy feeling in his chest, the feeling of being utterly powerless. Contempt is not enough to condemn a man, not even the contempt of a King's suspicions about a shady character who just so happens to be a man who can succeed his wife and Elizabeth.

Releasing a deep breath, Francis signaled for his secretary to come towards him. "Bring this to my mother, have her try and decipher this letter. See to it that _any_ possible hidden message is uncovered and that no stone is kept unturned," the man bowed in front of him and began to leave when an important thought passed through his mind. "Call for my brother and send him to my study in the nearest time possible," the secretary jotted it down in his notebook before disappearing into the doors.

Leaving restless, Francis stood up and walked the familiar halls of his home and found himself standing in front of double mahogany doors. After a nod to the guard, three short knocks filled the air. "Presenting, His Majesty, the King!" the doors flew open and Francis saw his wife being attended by Greer while she pressed a damp piece of cloth against Mary's forehead.

Worry filled his head as he a rather pale Mary.

"Francis," Greer stood up and dipped her head low, something Francis hated seeing behind close doors. He wanted to be treated as him, as Francis Valois by his friends, and not this whole ceremony where his presence would require a dozen guards and a crier for his every door. It was ridiculous and an absolute waste of time, especially with his nobles trying to call on his favor by attending to his every need. Jarring him back to reality, Greer seemed to have read his mind and stepped aside to let Francis sit next to Mary.

"What happened? She was fine this morning," Mary's forehead was warm and sweat decorated her face. "Did she drink her tea?" Greer nodded her head and sheepishly pointed towards the balcony door.

"It was left open, she probably fell cold when she fell asleep," Francis took a deep breath before being handed the warm, damp cloth. "If you want, I could get some steamed towels and a bit more tea from Nostradamus," a grateful smile met Greer's eyes before walking towards the door as he tucked some dark brown strands behind Mary's hair as she subconsciously cover herself in more of the comforter. "If it's any consolation, her fever won't last long before it breaks. She's only a cold, Nostradamus assured me of that," Francis found himself nodded as he watched Mary sleep as the sound of a door clicking close faded into the background.

"The balcony door was probably your doing, wasn't it?" Francis stared at the curtain covered doors. "I feel like it's my fault why you're like this, having left you here and telling you not to leave the room," Mary shifted a bit in her sleep as a satisfied sigh escaped her lips when Francis enveloped her into his arms as they both radiate heat. It was as if she was saying ' _Serves you right!_ ' or a more wise-crack ' _I told you so,_ ' and he could hear her voice despite Mary being asleep beside him.

"I'll make sure changes are arranged, walks by the beach or strolls by the gardens—anything to your liking, my love," Mary snuggled into her husband's arms when sharp knocks resounded in the air before the doors opened. "What is it?" Francis held a finger to his lips and asked in a hushed tone, which the messenger immediately followed suit as the King tried to get out of the bed without waking Mary.

"Majesty, Lord Sebastian has arrived inside your study," there was reluctance in Francis' movements. He couldn't leave his sick and pregnant wife alone. But then again, it was he who called for Bash and the pressing matter about Darnley motivated him to get up on his feet. Twitching his finger, the messenger walked towards Francis, his eyes showing his curiosity. "Should I ask for the Lord Deputy to retire shortly to his chambers and wait for your summoning, should it pleases His Majesty?" there was a part inside Francis that wanted to accept but he knew better than to bail.

Francis shook his head and opened the wooden door.

"Ask for Greer to stay with Mary, or for Nostradamus to keep her condition in check—the Queen is not to be left alone, do you understand me?" the man nodded before bowing as Francis left the room and into the halls of the palace, his feet bringing him towards two familiar doors.

Soon enough, Francis pushed the wooden dividers and he saw his brother, Bash, helping himself to a few cases of almonds. "Francis," there was little formality between the brothers behind closed doors. The two embraced, sharing a moment to relive the easier days when it was so much simpler to run around the castle corridors with governesses chasing after them. "Why did you call for me?" it wasn't a rude question, but Francis saw that the airs in his lungs had abandoned him. "It's not normal for you to yank men out of their deserved breaks in hunting," Bash joked, his chuckles vibrating throughout the room until he saw the troubled expression that sat by Francis' eyes.

"Bash, I need you to do something for me," his brother nodded and took out a notepad and a quil. "I want you to send some men to England along with the merchants seeking to set up trade near the English Royal Court— _make sure that your network of spies are impenetrable and discreet_ —to hear word of Darnley and what his true intentions are," Francis couldn't help but notice the grimace that appeared on his brother's face the minute he had mentioned the name ' _Darnley_ ', something that would have sent him laughing weren't for the situation at hand. "What's wrong with you?" he asked silently, nudging his brother's shoulder.

With a deep sigh, Bash fixed the collar of his shirt. "As a bastard of a King, I've been entitled the right to spend my time at the ill-reputed taverns of the best reputation," immediately, Francis caught on to his brother's words. Fighting off a snicker, Francis waved his hand and urged Bash ti continue with his story. "And so, as I was saying, as a young man with deep pockets, I couldn't help it when they compare me to a man of youth and of formidable wealth station, a man known for targeting women in his quests—even _married_ ones," Francis' caught his breath midway and felt that the world had stopped spinning.

With the dots aligning themselves perfectly, Francis could make out a steady image of how and why Darnley's in France.

"Are you saying that Darnley is after Mary?" Bash shrugged and looked at his brother's eyes—Valois eyes.

"It makes perfect sense! It's a strategic marriage for him. A marital relationship with Mary could make Darnley a major player and heir for the English throne and the Scottish throne, or perhaps to crown himself using the Crown Matrimonial," possibilities raced in Francis' mind when Bash suddenly grabbed his shoulders and gave him a solemn look. "Perhaps you and Mary should retreat to the Louvre and wait this incident out," Francis caught his breath midway and stopped breathing for a moment—this is his chance to do right.

Will he be a coward of a King, running away from danger like a dog with its tail in between its legs? No, Francis promised his wife that he would be a different kind of King, a just and fair ruler who would not abandon anyone. But, maybe this is the Universe's way of telling him that he should dance with Mary under the stars of Orion's Belt inside the palace of the Louvre. Who should he be? Should he be a King, just and fair, a man who wouldn't put any love above his country or a husband and a father commissioned by God to serve his wife and protect his child?

"No," it was a firm decision, an iron will that resounded in the air. "I will not run away. Mary and I dreamed of becoming different kind of rulers, a vision I would gladly make a reality. I will not act solely on the whim of a possible usurper and destroy an alliance, the peace between our three countries that Mary has sacrificed for, by displaying myself as an absent King who would not meet his guests because of whatever reasons they may think of,," Francis faced his brother, whose brows were furrowed and mouth was ajar from a fruitless attempt to argue and protest. "Having Mary travel isn't the most effective option, either— _she's recovering from a serious wound and battling a fever_ —now isn't exactly the best of time to travel," Bash nodded and clasped his hands together.

"I understand, I'll send off some men at first light," Francis shot his brother a thankful look and a warm smile. "Oh, and I'll probably be traveling with them," Bash chuckled when his brother shot him a curious look. "A killer has been on the loose and Delphine has these waves of emotion, these feelings that maybe the killer is nearby a village near the route," the name brought familiar memories and a sudden rush of gratitude.

"Ah, yes," the issues of the heart thief that plagued the nearby villages. "Be careful, I don't know what goes on in that head of your's, but I do know that it usually involves trouble and danger," Bash chuckled deep and picked up his gloves before heading for the door.

Cleaning up his desk and arranging the papers scattered across it, Francis stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a portrait. It was a portrait of Mary, dressed in regal white with a glittering crown upon her head. His breathing stopped for a moment. "We're one step closer, Mary," Francis whispered to himself as he grinned widely at the oil-based masterpiece. "Our happy future is no longer a whisper of longing," with his motivation to go on, Francis picked up a lavender from a vase near him and headed for his chambers.

On his way to his chambers, Francis had bumped against a person. "An apology, Your Majesty," the deep tenor registered in Francis' mind when he reached the doors of his chambers.

Henry Stuart.


	13. Chapter XII

There was a loud exchanging of words outside the doors to Mary's chamber, a conversation that woke her up from her sleep. Trying to recognize those voices, Mary pushed herself up and groggily sat up as a wave of dizziness rushed to her head. Realizing that one of the voices belonged to her aged guard, Gaston, Mary rubbed the sleepiness off of her eyes and grabbed a mirror from her nightstand. "Guard, who goes there?" suddenly, the loud conversation had stopped and a noise of shuffling filled the air. "Guard?" deeming herself presentable and appropriate, Mary would have chosen to open the door herself had her head-ache disappeared.

"Majesty, your cousin, Henry Stuart, the Lord Darnley, is requesting for an audience claiming that he has a letter to deliver from your brother, the Earl of Moray," Gaston's voice was dripping with disbelief and distaste that Mary couldn't find fault in. The letters her brother, James, would be delivered through her other brother, Robert Stuart, Earl of Orkney, her Scottish ambassador to France. "Should I deny him his request, Majesty?" there was a harshness in the guard's voice that Mary almost pitied the receiving end.

"No, I would like to speak to my cousin," it was a bold decision that shocked even those outside as there was a moment of silence before the door was slowly opened. In front of her bed was a man she would have billed as an Englishman. His movement was very English, his fashion screamed Elizabethan Court. Had Mary knew no better, she would have called Henry out as an ambassador yet she saw through his Scottish accent and Stuart dark brown hair and eyes. The moment Henry had bowed and paid respect, she knew that the man in front of her was her cousin.

There, in front of her, stood a man who could stand to inherit both the thrones of Scotland and England.

"Majesty, I would like to thank you for your generosity on the matter about your audience," Henry raised his head to meet the eyes of his Queen as he bowed low. "I have to say, Queen Mary, we've much to discuss," Mary raised a brow as she propped herself up on the pillows of her bed. Seeing this, Henry's brows furrowed and stood up. "Is something not to your liking, Majesty?" a stoic and regal expression graced Mary's face as she held out her hand expectantly. Confusion was written all over Darnley's face he tried to think of something that displeased Mary.

"According to my guard, you are tasked by my dearest brother to deliver a letter into my hands and since you have not taken the initiative nor brought up the subject about a letter that could hold urgent matters about my nation, I will ask for you," Mary fixed herself on the bed and sat straighter before holding her hand out again. "Where is the letter my brother asked you to deliver to me?" trouble plagued his face as Henry opened his mouth several times to explain and yet not a single word was uttered. "Ah, I see," Mary eyed Darnley as a scoff escaped her lips. "You have lied to me, your sovereign monarch, claiming you have a letter about Scottish affairs. _Most_ monarchs would have you imprisoned—others are not so generous and would consider it treason!" Darnley's eyes widened and approached the bed frame and knelt again.

"Majesty, with all due respect, I really was tasked by James Stuart to deliver a letter. I swear upon my _immortal_ soul," she raised a brow as a grim line was seen on Mary's lips.

"So, what happened to the letter?" a sheepish tone filled the room.

"You see, Your Majesty, your husband stole it from me!"

* * *

The sound of the door clicking and metal tapping stirred Mary awake. The sound brought the consciousness back into her senses to notice the light that brought back color to her vision after a rather bland and dark slumber. It was, however, the tapping sound of familiar leather boots that shook the sleepiness off of her eyes, that brought a small smile to grace her lips, and for her to prop herself up and open her eyes only to see her husband removing his coat and vest.

"You're awake," a small smile replaced the shocked expression on Francis' face before he went into the covers of the bed and joined his wife, taking her petite frame into his arms. "Your temperature has lowered, that's good," he noted silently that Mary wouldn't have heard him had he been across the room and not with her in their bed. "And your face has regained color," Mary felt the cool tips of Francis' fingers on her skin as he tucked a stray stand of hair behind her ear. "Your fever will probably break by tonight or tomorrow's morn," Mary smiled as she re-positioned herself on the bed and laid her hand across Francis' chest, her hand above his heart. The familiar thump of his heart and his comforting body heat gave such security to Mary.

Looking up expectantly at Francis, Mary breathed in deep and slow, cherishing his scent and calming herself. "You're quite right, I'm feeling better already," Francis smiled and pressed a kiss on her temple and he closed his eyes and hummed a peaceful tune. "In fact, I feel like I'm well enough to join you for your banquet for the merchants from England," the smile from her husband's face had slowly faded away as his brows furrowed. Soon, Francis shook his head and stroke Mary's long hair.

"No, you should rest. Perhaps once the fortnight comes to pass, I'll give back the reins of your nation and let you handle them, my Queen," Mary gave out a humph. She believed that a compromise is not acceptable. "The merchants are quite demanding and I'm not so sure if I will be so willing to share my beautiful wife," a soft chuckle escaped Mary's lips before a serious look replaced a moment's laughter. She knew what she had to do, Mary knew that there is a person to be met with and she is not one to back away from her own priorities. "Besides, I'm considering passing up the event altogether," Francis dismissed the idea with a wave of the hand.

"Francis, _I_ think I'm well enough to handle stuffy English merchants, even if one of those blasted men happens to be my cousin, _Darnley_ ," shock was written all over Francis' face as he turned to face his wife. " _Oh_ , don't look so surprised—the maids have been quite preoccupied with their gossiping of a man of reasonable wealth and value, a man in line to the English _and_ Scottish thrones, and most important of his traits, he's _quite_ the catch of the eye," Mary remembered the events in her chambers as she fought off the dizziness and the black dots dancing around her vision while entertaining the Lord Darnley. "He's quite persistent on getting an audience with me, might I add," a soft groan escaped Francis' lips as he exhaled.

"I'm sorry, I've tried my best to make sure he doesn't get a chance at an audience— _obviously, it's not enough_ —and now a rumor's gone rampant in the palace of how I'm going to run away from Court because of the new and demanding trade deals with England and the growing tension with King Phillip of Spain. . .probably some page who attended to my meeting with Bash this afternoon," Mary propped herself up and wove their fingers together, pressing a kiss on his knuckles.

"Then _let_ me join you! Let's show them that the King and Queen of France will stand strong in the direction of tension and demanding deals—what better way to show them our strong will and determination than to put up a show of their monarchs standing strong in marital union and political alliance?" Mary could see the conflict inside of Francis' head. She could see how he weighs the consequences and the advantages of each option. "Let me stand by you as your wife, let me support you, Francis," a smile found its way unto his lips as Mary snuggled deep into the crook of Francis' arm.

"Alright, but the minute I see you faltering or wavering by the hallway, we're retiring for the evening," the ultimatum stood strong and rang in Mary's mind.

* * *

Walking was a bit of a lengthy process, but Mary managed with a great deal of discretion and acting. It was difficult, but she couldn't leave her husband to a pack of rapid wolves of the political chain. "Are you alright?" Francis tightened his grip on Mary's arm as she paced out and was lost in a moment of time. Dizziness was no foreigner to her when moving around. "Should I call for a servant?" turning around, he raised his hand and voice. "You there, boy—fetch a chair for the Queen!" after a moment of darkness, Mary suddenly found herself on a seat being fanned by a servant and served an iced drink by her husband.

She could hear the cursing under the King of France's breath.

"I should have never allowed this," Mary placed a hand on his cheek and smiled warmly.

"No, don't blame yourself, Francis," Mary felt the warmth of Francis hand as he covered her palm with his. "Let's get this over with, shall we?" Mary stood up despite the protests of the people around her. "We're here to put up a show and I won't retire until I show one to Darnley," although Francis was still worrying about his wife's condition, he couldn't helo but a feel his heart swell in pride. _This is his selfless wife_ , he thought to himself as pressed a kiss on Mary's temple. "So you could accept the fact that I won't give up or we could clammer on and on the whole night," a small smile was placed on Mary's lips as Francis recognized that tone.

With a sigh, he held his hand out in front of Mary. "There is no use in arguing, I must admit," with a bright smile, Mary took his offer and raised herself to her feet and felt the happiest she has ever been this week. "It's about time I learn that my wife will eventually get things her way," a chuckle escaped Mary's lips as Francis looped her arm into his. Checking a wall clock near them as they walked towards the throne room, Francis clicked his tongue and Mary looked up to see why. "There is no use in prolonging the inevitable, anyway,"

"We'll show those nobles how wrong they are, how we'll stand strong togetyer against possible usurpers or head-strong kings of Spain!" Francis mocked a condescending look. Standing in front of the intimidating double doors, Mary glanced, her stares a bit wobbly, at Francis' face and caught his attention. "Are you ready for them?" Francis smiled warmly and lovingly at his wife.

"Only if you are, my love," he brought her hand into his lips and placed a chaste kiss. Leaning in to whisper in her ear, Mary closed her eyes. "Just tell me if you're hurting—tug on my arm to let me know," with a smile on her face, Mary nodded and soon, the wooden double doors were opened to reveal a small crowd of fifty, bowing to their every step towards their thrones.

"King Francis, Queen Mary!" in the corner of Mary's eyes, she saw Francis' smile as he greeted the man. "Thomas Howard, Majesty, the Duke of Norfolk sent on the behalf of Queen Elizabeth," Mary smiled at the man though her stomach churned at the scent of the wine from his clothes and goblet. "I apologize for the outfit and the dreadful scent, Your Majesties, a silly servant spilled wine on me," Francis nodded understandingly as he apologized on the behalf of the server when suddenly there was a tug on his arm.

"Well, you'll have to excuse us," the Duke bowed low as Francis lead Mary towards their thrones. "Only a few more steps," he encouraged her as Mary felt her knees wobble.

There was laughter in the halls and soon, silence. "Musicians! Give this banquet a joyful tune for the King and Queen to dance through!" Mary's face had paled as Francis' heart began to beat faster.


	14. Chapter XIII

A tune wafted through the air as concern rushed in Francis' mind while supporting his wife. "You don't have to do this, Mary, I'll explain everything and they'll understand your situation," resisting the urge to hold up his hand as Mary shook her head at his attempt. "You're not well enough, Mary—let me take care of this," despite feeling the heaviness and pain surge in her head, Mary smiled. "What?" seeing the smile that brightened up her face and lifted the heavy weight in his chest.

"Why wait for our time at the Louvre Palace when we have now?" Mary took her husband's hand and lead him to the spacious center of the hall. "I've learned that there is no better time than the present," holding her hand up to his lips, Mary took a step back and started circling her husband with a hand held across his palm. "I've got such a perfect husband and wonderful music— _why_ on Earth should I throw away this opportunity to enjoy a simple dance with you when we know that with a blink of an eye we could lose each other just as easily as a prophecy can foretell your death?" Francis inched closer to her and placed a hand on her waist as he lowered her back.

"Because there is no magic but only what we make for ourselves," hearing Mary's breathing quaver, Francis secured his hold on her back and twirled her with his fingers holding her hand firmly, supporting her to the very best that he can when they faced each other and lowered her back. "We are the makers of our own destiny, Mary, and we don't need to rush it—we have our whole lives ahead us and I intend to take our sweet time in enjoying it," with his hand supporting Mary's weight, Francis raised her back up and spun her away from him.

"I'm just saying that we shouldn't take things that may seem small and insignificant— _like time_ —for granted, Francis," with a small smile, Mary spun right back into her husband's chest, something that made Francis' heart skip a beat as he felt her skin and the whiff of her distinct perfume reaching him made it easier for Francis to forget the troubles with the Vatican and Spain's King Philip brought by the new English alliance.

"All I'm saying is that I am most willing to wait for you, may it be for a dance in the Louvre or for the next life as we start anew," placing her hand on his cheek, Francis smiled cheekily and lifted her up in the air gracefully, taking the moment to study his wife, her every feature. "That's why I have to end our little dance because I have to wait for the right moment, and while I know that being patient or waiting was never your forte in life, we will always have our little things to enjoy before our big dance," with that being said, Francis bowed down to one knee and gently brought Mary's hand to his lips and placed a soft, sweet kiss on her skin.

With a thankful and grateful smile on her lips, Mary placed her other hand on his cheek. " _Francis_ ," it was a weak voice, he was so sure as worry filled his mind, but the smile and the joy he sees in her eyes and the love and adoration woven into her voice. It gave him such strength and made him believe. It gave him enough power to fight for whatever it is they need to overcome.

' _The fear of death, may it be their unborn child, his or her life, the upstaging, no-good Darnley to name a few_ ,' thoughts that ran through his mind as the crowds clapped at the scene they've created, the epitome of love and the personification of their union they're yet to know when there was a small rift in the crowds, only to reveal his mother.

The sharp look on the Italian Queen Mother of France's face yelled one thing out loud and very clesr for her son, the King of France—it is time for the pregnant woman to stop dancing and to start resting.

"There is no distance too great or time too long for me, Mary, not when it comes to you," Francis whispered while getting lost in the brown orbs that hypnotized him, a color that cast a spell upon him, a trance he would never wish to be broken. If he could, Francis would have this moment in time frozen for it is a moment he could treasure and replay for all of eternity and his love for the memory imprinted in their minds would never grow out or fade away. The memory would, he decided at the moment, will be one of their most precious experience shared together in their second chance.

Feeling the loose hold on his hand, Francis was jarred back to reality and guided his wife to the sturdy throne that stood proud beside his. He would never grow tired of the scene where his wife would assume her role as Queen of France. It is a moment where he could feel his heart swell with such pride and joy in letting the world know that it his wife sitting beside him, albeit tired and displaying fatigue.

"Perhaps one of the great distances to be considered is the space between the center of the room to out thrones?" though tired and dizzy, Mary found herself grinning at her husband's attempt to lighten up the mood. After all, Francis saw an opportunity and he took it before the smile slowly faded away from his face.

"What's wrong?"

Francis saw Bash, his brother. Normally, he would be _ecstatic_ to hear about his dearest friend and closest sibling, but knowing that he sent him just earlier on a mission, one has to wonder why. Aside from his presence, Francis noted the grim look on his face that minggled with the disappointment and irritation on his face. "Bash," the King stood up to greet him as a brother would—with a warn embrace. "What's wrong, what happened?" with a small nod of a head, Bash bowed and dipped his bead low to the Queeb before whisking away the King of France.

"There's been another attack by our heart thief, and now that Delphine has removed herself from our services because of what happened in the village with Greer. . .I'm afraid I have to abandon my other obligations to secure that fiend's arrest—although I'm itching to go on riding with that bastard behind closed bars, I'm afraid I have to ask for your company, brother, to discuss sone things," Bash gave Mary an expectant look and Francis felt himself being torn apart by his two great loves. Is he to stay by his wife or to attend to his country?

But something rang in his mind, the fear that he felt when Mary was lying motionless on the hospital bed. He remembered the fear that coursed through his body when he felt so helpless. "I can't, Bash, not now—perhaps later?" there was a look of both understanding and disappointment in the Deputy's face. "As much as I would love to spend some time in your enlightening company, I would rather spend it with my wife when she needs me," there is no greater pain than being helpless in situations like Mary's abduction. It would be his greatest regret and his last mistake.

He will not leave his wife's side anymore.

"I understand," giving a tight and understanding smile, Bash stepped off the stairs and gave a bow before turning on his heel.

"No, Bash—wait!" the soft voice sounded beside Francis when he turned to face his wife. Feeling his gaze upon her, Mary slowly faced her husband with a loving and supportive smile. "You don't have to stay here in this banquet if only for my sake," with gentle nudging, Francis was put up to his feet and standing a few steps before an exhausted Mary. "You should attend to those issues because you have to be the leaders we've dreamed ourselves to be," with a small smile on his face, Francis dipped his head low and stepped down the trail of stairs.

"If it so pleases you, Your Majesty," Bash stepped forward and bowed low in front of his friend as Francis stared at his wife in awe. Not so willing to leave his wife just yet, Francis allowed his brother to go ahead of him to his study, earning a confused look and a hearty chuckle. "I just wanted to say to my wife, without the smirking audience that is my brother, that she is uncommonly desireable and that I love her before my duty completely whisks me away." With the rolling of eyes, Mary's laughter filled the atmosphere.

* * *

"So, what's more pressing than the heart thief?"

Bash stood in front of him, his gaze was fixed and distant and it made Francis worry. "As you know, the public announcement of your peace treaty with England was not so well received as we've hooed it would be," a grimace appeared on Francis' face as his brother placed an envelope in front of him. "Some were disappointed that Mary would not overthrow Elizabeth and others were furious about a treaty with a Protestant country, let alone England!" Francis felt a heavy sigh escape his lips as he's realized that the racial discrimination between their countried are far from over. "And others are angry just because," Bash motioned for the letter and suddenly the feather-like weighted letter began to feel heavy!

Removing the wax seal, Francis fished out a red strip of cloth. "What's this?" then, when Francis turned it around, he saw the painted words that made his blood freeze.

 _Death to the Valois and their crooked path!_

The look on Francis' face screamed confusion and he felt as if the world was turned upside down in worry for his wife— _Mary_. Francis immediately regret the decision he's made to leave her. "Who sent this?" Bash's face darkened and the atmosphere became heavy. "You said that this man's hatred for the Valois isn't directly related to the peace treaty—why only send the threat now?" questions rummaged through Francis' mind and the worst theory began to entertain itself on his mind. _'Perhaps Darnley has learned of Mary's pregnancy and he wishes to eliminate the competition for the Scottish throne,'_ it would have been a suitable hypothesis and yet why include the Valois?

"I've got a suspicion, and while it's not solid, I can see no other candidate: The Red Knights," Francis tried to rack his mind but it was not familiar. He had no clue as to who they were! "Father was always so impulsive and he didn't consider Catherine's council as much back then," Francis could paint a familiar scene in his mond where he would just hear his parents' fights as he retreated into the familiar arms of Olivia D'Amencourt. "Father owed a mercenary group money and instead of paying them, he had executed them—I can still remember the haunting glint in his eyes as he forced me to look at their corpses," Bash shuddered as Francis was pained to admit that it was, in fact, their father.

"And this is their revenge?" he connected the dots.

"Yes," it was a grim statement and Francis knew what had to be done—he needed to get to his wife.

* * *

The music was still loud and cheerful when the doors to the throne room opened. He could still see the people dancing, eating, drinking, and chatting around as the hours seemed to fly by. It was clear ro Francis that his mother could truly plan a party so extravagant to scandalize even the French nobility and aristocrats.

However, it was not the fact that the banquet is still ongoing but the fact that Mary's throne was empty. Francis could have easily thought of Mary retiring to their chambers but their guards were still stationed by the doors. Shaking the weird feeling, he sat on his throne as his eyes racked the crowd in search for his wife, but when he couldn't find hee, Francis motioned for a guard to inch closer to his side. "Where is the Queen?" the question was supposed to be casual and easy but it came out strained and clingy.

"Talking, Your Majesty, with her cousin, Henry Stuart, the Lord Darnley."


	15. Chapter XIV

There was a tug on Mary's heart as she watched her husband's golden curls disappear in the ocean of people and behind the solid doors. She felt his absence immediately when the cold air crept up to her hand where Francis' fingers were once woven into her's. Yet, despite the longing for her husband's presence, Mary couldn't feel more proud because she sees a man worthy of a nation and the responsibility to govern two Kingdoms—she would gladly bow down to her husband and Lord not because society dictates her to but because he deserves her respect.

As a monarch to another, she feels so fortunate to see a man who is willing to put his love for country first above other, and while she could envy the fervor burning in his heart, Mary couldn't find it in herself to blame him. She is like him in every way regarding their duties— _she and Scotland are one and the same as he and France could not bear any differences_ —and while she is more than aware that he cannot overcome such love for nation, Mary, on the other hand, is willing to finally retire to a role of a wife and of a mother.

She has long dreamt of a girl, not a Queen of anything, being happy with her family. She has long been a pawn and it has been such a long time ago since she has last made decisions for herself and not for country, and while she loves Scotland as its essence flows in the blood that pounds hard within her veins, she could see the wonderful job her brother is doing as regent. While Mary hates to admit it, but she has put Scotland in peril because of decisions, she is more than confident that her brother will satisfy the need of a just ruler in her country.

She loves Scotland—before any prince or Dauphin came knocking upon her heart, Scotland has captivated her dreams and has been the apple of her eyes for so long. Mary would go so far as to say that Scotland is her first and most purest love but Mary is at home. France is her home, _Francis_ is where her heart lays waiting, and while Scotland is her first love, it is her husband and her family who would be her last.

The tapping sound and the creaking of the wooden boards jarred Mary back into reality as she's seen a man bowing in front of her. The foreign yet familiar fashion clicked in her mind as she knew exactly who the man in front of her is.

 _Darnley_.

"Your Majesty, I've heard rumors of your talents in the ballroom while travelling across Europe— _I've even had a statue sculpted in the image of your dancing!_ —but I can now see for myself that the rumors does not give justice," he dipped his head low and flashed his white teeth. "I must say that you and your husband are a pair to be reckoned with—the dance was absolutely wonderful, I was left awestruck at the moment when your radiant beauty graced the hall," he rose from his bow and took further steps yet he stopped when met with the steely gaze and a fixed jaw.

" _Flattery_ will get you nowhere, Lord Darnley—I've never required flowers for words when entertaining audience and you will not hear me utter such unless truly deserved," the look on the English merchant was outstanding! The blown expression sitting on his face paired with the fixed gaze upon the ground was something Mary will often remember. "What is it you want, Lord Darnley? Is it another letter stolen by my husband or is it a message from the Pope instead intercepted by a flawed messenger and you're here to correct it?" with a strained smile, Henry Stuart held his hand out and pointed towards a rather empty hallway inside the room.

"Actually, Your Majesty, I was just wondering if you'd like to continue the conversation we've never had the chance to finish earlier," Mary's eyes narrowed and felt her chest tighten. The nonsense she had been listening to earlier returned to her mind. "This matter is as urgent as an alliance and as a declaration of war—It's best if we finish the discussion regarding Scotland's. . . _predicament_ with France and her allies," Darnley hinted a tone louder than it should have been and Mary felt her blood freeze at a possibility of a panic.

Whether or not the rumors are true, Mary could not allow a hear-say of a possible situation to run rampant in French Court, planting fear in every mind. Besides, Mary prefered having dealt with common threats on hand and not by representation of power like guards or servants.

Even though it was straining her to stand up, Mary gave her guards a tight smile and accepted the offered hand from her cousin and walked towards an abandoned hall where the once friendly Darnley turned different. "It is of the _essence_ that you understand the gravity of the situation, cousin, Scotland is at stake here!" nearing her face, Darnley snarled as his eyes held pure white rage. "I _don't_ want your job, I've never dreamed of such responsibility but if you continue your _follies_ here in France, I've no choice but to take it and do it right—I've never wanted blood staining my hands but I will be willing to dunk my hands into your bloodied corpse, Mary, if you are not willing to do your duties in Scotland as its Queen!" feeling her fingers clump into a fist, Mary stared at the insulting man in front of her.

"How _dare_ you?! I am your sovereign Queen and you will treat me with respect! And how dare you insinuate that I do _not_ take the interests of Scotland into mind?! Let me tell you that although I have been raised in France, my hearts beats for Scotland and her needs!" he scoffed in disbelief before cracking his knuckles in front of her. Mary felt the anger seethe out of him, the aura that was so red with fury. "I will not accept this kind of behavior from my subject!" Darnley gave out a dry and humorless laugh.

"You're no Queen of Scotland, you are just a pawn who is whoring herself and her country to Rome and to France even after those who control you are long gone! You're no monarch until your hands are calloused and drenched in sweat and blood in a battlefield before even considering the option of submitting into an alliance so useless, a treaty that is dooming Scotland to Spain and Rome, those damned Papists they are!" Darnley's knuckles were white when it collided with the wall, sending vibrations if fear throughout Mary, who felt so scared for herself and her child.

"What do you want me to do? How can I act in this patriarchal society with the likes of John Knox who believes in the inferiority of women and continuoisly limits our powers to move around in my court, when you have no proof of your allegations but only your mere words—you couldn't support your claim and yet you judge me for not acting upon something that might not even be true or happening!" feeling her brave façade waver, Mary immediately removed herself from Darnley's company and walked towards the doors separating them from the banquet. "If you weren't a favorite in English Court, I would have had you hanged!" looking at him in the shadows, her vision continuouslu blurred. "But since you play an important part in the English-Scottish peace treaty, I will graciously forgive my disloyal subject—but you may find that for a second time, I am unforgiving," with her legs feeling weak, Mary pushed the doord open and stood by the door.

"If it's proof you want," Darnley hissed at her whilst examining his bloodied fist, "it is proof you'll get and I will personally make sure that you regret not listening to me," Mary finally turned around and left the dark hall, only to realize that the bright lights of the throne room was far too much for her eyes.

As the people bowed down to her, she tried to fix her appearance— _tucking a few stray strands here and there, wiping beads of sweat every now and then, trying to normalize her breathing_ —when she saw the familiar black curls before her vision went blurry as she weakly pushed through the crowd. "Look at her, she's a fright!" she's heard whispers and giggles from those around as she shut her eyes to stop the dizziness until she felt strong arms around her. Then, the people around her was silenced as she opened her eyes to see flashes of Francis running towards her and Darnley holding her in his arms.

* * *

 _ **And so, we've finally reached the rising action**_.


	16. Chapter XV

Francis felt this uncomfortable tightening in his chest when he saw his wife passed out in the arms of Darnley and the people around him talking as his heart clenched tighter at the knowledge that rang loud in his mind when he was told by her guards that Mary and her cousin had been absent from the limelight for quite some time in an isolated hall adjacent to the throne room, a spacious lot where no guards were to patrol or anyone would be too interested to consider.

The thought of his wife alone with Darnley was sending painful thoughts to his mind, and while he couldn't bring himself to not trust his wife due to her hatred of Darnley, he knows too well the romantic dalliances of the English nobleman brought by his appeal. He couldn't help but think that, like Condé, Henry could charm his way into Mary—but all of that thinking was pushed out the window and Francis felt ice-cold water being poured over his body when Darnley's brows furrowed when he placed two fingers on Mary's wrist.

"The Queen," Darnley rasped for everyone to hear, his facial expression showing irritation at the lack of action from the crowd's part, a group of people just standing by and watching intently. "The Queen _needs_ medical attention—call for the Royal physician, now!" Francis felt himself glued to the floor as the people's movements seemed to blur out when only one thing became clear and sharp in his vision, and that was Mary. She is three months pregnant with their first child, the first and most dangerous months for a babe and pregnant woman!

His thoughts raced at the possibility of losing his wife and child.

 _No_ , Francis thought to himself, _he will not lose his family_!

Taking matters into his own hands— _literally_ —Francis knelt down and scooped Mary into his arms and carried her away to the infirmary as guards cleared the way for him. Francis felt his mind rush with adrenaline when he felt Mary gave out a shaky breath and ran to the best of his abilities towards Nostradamus, who came out the double doors with men who took his wife from his arms. "Majesty," Nostradamus bowed his head as the men went ahead, "I will take care of the Queen from here," dipping his head low as he took a step backwards, Nostradamus rushed inside the infirmary, leaving no company to distract him with.

Mary has always been one to reach out for family, especially with the convenience and luxury of letters. Even Elizabeth has been a recepient of Mary's issued letters, and Francis somehow doubts that Darnley, a man so senior in the line of succession, would have been exempted from his wife's outreaching personality—and while he can be sure of his wife's intent in connecting with her extended family, it the ulterior motive that Darnley has yet to show that continous to keep Francis on his toes and frightens him every chance it gets.

Although Francis couldn't bear to listen, let alone believe, in such rumors that Mary has acquainted herself with Darnley the way she had been with Condé, the whispers were growing loud and rampant that it took such control and discipline to stop himself from combusting all of a sudden. Surely, the image of a mad King will need a reason to stem from and as a jealous and insecure husband, it's quite easy to point fingers. His enemies would want nothing more than to dissolve the Auld Alliance—and with simple actions, words, and glances, Francis could easily do his enemies' job without meaning to.

French Court has been no stranger to the disappointment as the government has been no foreigner to bowing down to former enemies as some of the nobles consider the Anglo-French peace treaty a display of inferiority, and for the French, there is nothing worse than bowinh down to the English who's pushed their buttons long enough.

For some of the nobles, destroying an alliance orchestrated by Mary could mean superiority.

"Francis?"

The sound of tapping resounded in his mind. He turned around to see his mother, running towards him, dismissing her guards as she knelt down and caressed his cheek. "Oh, my boy," she muttered under her breath as she watched the infirmary doors. "I told you, I repeatedly told you not to bring her to the banquet!" Her voice was an octave louder than what he was used to. The cringe in his face was enough for his mother to know that he was suffering his mistake bad enough without his mother's reprimanding. "Has there been any news about Mary?" she calmly asked with a deep sigh.

Francis shook his head. "They've been working on her and haven't told me a single thing about her condition. . ." Francis felt himself trail off when he imagined a heartbroken Mary crying and wailing away in the night clutching her stomach. "What if she lost the child? I couldn't handle it if she lost the baby and I would be so powerless as to help Mary—God forbids that to come to pass, but in the event that it _should_ , what could I do, Mother?" Catherine cupped her son's cheeks into her hands and Francis saw his mother's eyes as she stared straight into his.

"We don't know God's plan— _that being works in such mysterious ways, Francis_ —but know this, my golden child, nothing good will come out of cowardice," Francis felt confusion and felt his brows furrow together. "Driving yourselves apart and standing divided will bring you nowhere—instead, stand by her side, support her in every step of the way and love her because together you are a force to be reckoned with and apart. . .well, let's not imagine that, shall we?" His mother tried for a smile and Francis felt himself trying for one as well.

With his mother and Mary by his side, Francis felt like a powerful man. He imagined a France with no turmoil and a Scotland where there is peace. He sees a family practicing values, loving and caring for one another.

"And above all, Francis, you have to believe that she will stand by your side—the _Queen of Scots_ is by your side," the phrase resounded in his mind as his mother instructed him. Mary is by his side and together, everything is possible. While a part of Francis wondered what made his mother forget the rough beginnings and difficult relationship with his wife, he always knew that his mother loved Mary as her daughter— _she had raised her together with him and his siblings_ —and that her trying to drive her away was because of that damned prophecy that caused so much pain.

"I know that, Mother, I believe with my heary and soul," it was a warm sight to be seen, a mother and a son, Francis thought to himself while glancing at the large wooden double doors and he enjoyed the feel of his mother, of Catherine de Medici being the matriarch and family-bound person she truly is and not the cold and ruthless Queen she's made everybody to assume she is.

Francis, however, was jarred back to reality when his mother stood up and he finally heard the coughing beside him. Turning to see the source of the sound, Francis stood up to see a man he didn't want to set eyes upon—Darnley, with his head dipped low.

"Cousins," his mother muttered beside him. "Those people you call family and yet they stab you in the back, those wretched traitors," Francis would have laughed if he didn't want to give their conversation away. "Ah," his mother turned to face Mary's cousin, "Henry Stuart, to what do we owe this pleasure of your presence?" there was a dark look on Darnley's face, an expression Francis couldn't entirely distinguish and nothing but silence followed. "If it's about politics, I'm afraid you'll have to wait—my son is attending to his wife and all affairs of the state, whether French or Scottish, will have to wait," it took a moment to register on his face that he was being dismissed and Francis felt himself so grateful to his mother.

He would gave socked that Scottish Lord, even if the only crime he's committed is to disrupt him and his mother.

"I see that my presence is rather unneeded and unwanted, Your Majesties," he dipped his head again and exited the hall and disappeared into the other rooms, leaving Francis with this unsettling feeling in his stomach.

"I don't like that man, he gives me this feeling your Father often gave me," Francis shot his mother a confused look. "An urge to kill," for once, he wanted his mother to comply with her impulsive and rather rash _urges_. The ones involving Narcisse, however, he does _not_ want to relive hearing those rumors again.

"Well, let's save the actual killing when we've gathered evidences to arrest him, shall we? Contempt is not enough to condemn a man, even the contempt of a king," Francis saw a look of pride in his mother when she took his cheeks into her hands once again and placed a short kiss on his forehead, something she has not done since he was a little boy, a Dauphin and not the King.

"That, my boy, is what makes you a better King and person than your father," he found himself nodding. He is strong like his father, but he will keep his wife and love her. As Francis continuously swore to himself that he will be the husband his father should have been, he realized that it was the lack of trust and jealousy that drove his parents apart with people like Richard Delacroix and Diane de Poitiers and that feeling he's long felt inside of him was jealousy and his insecurities. During these short moments, Francis realized that his deepest fear is that someone more worthy of Mary will come and sweeo her away, and while it is not rational, what is reasonable with fears?

With renewed strength, he knew what he had to do. He no longer felt threatened by Darnley or the memories of Condé, he felt like the nightmares of Mary turning to another will stop haunting his nights when Mary is not around because while he understands that Mary is his light, she is the sun to many— _ranging from the Scottish people to her supporters_ —and he needs to understand that he needs to survive in the darkness for a short time because she needs to shine upon others who needs her brightnesd and enlightenment.

Francis only needs to hold on to the fact that she will, like the sun, come back and shine upon him again.

With a determined will, he looked straight at his mother. He will not repeat the sins of his father. He is not his father.

"I am Francis II, King of the French and the Scots—and despite what many claims, I am not my father, I am nothing like him and where he has failed I will succeed."


	17. Chapter XVI

The distant voices, although hushed, woke Mary up, or at least gave her some sense of what the environment around her is—the bright lights and the clean scent gave it away. She's inside the infirmary, _again_ and if it weren't for her weakened state, Mary would have sighed. It has become an unsettling habit for her to wake up in the heavily draped bed with herbal tea that came with a rather strong and irritable aroma that.

"I just _don't_ understand why she's like this constantly—when Lola was pregnant with Jean, although I've never seen the rest of the heavy part of her pregnancy, there was so little complication with the condition in the early months," she recognized the voice. It was Francis' ringing worry that sold Mary into registering whose voice it actually was. "And I've already been told by other physicians and midwives, although unaware of Mary's condition, that should the mother be sick often, it results in a healthy child but at _what_ cost?" there was desperation and need, probably for an answer.

"Majesty—" the gruff and hoarse voice of Nostradamus was cut short.

"I've been giving her the supplements and the herbs and her tea yet _nothing_ seems to be working!" Mary could feel eyes glancing at her body, as if watching her intently. "Nostradamus, I cannot lose Mary as my father lost my mother, nor will I be the absent man he was—I am showing you now that I am involved in this pregnancy _just_ as much as Mary is and I need to know everything that is to happen even the situation, may God forbid it, wherein I have to decide between Mary and the babe," it was soft as a whisper before silence reigned the lot.

"I understand that Your Majesty is very much invested in this pregnancy with the Queen Mary, but you must understand as I have said before—pregnancies _differ_ between women." It was general, it could have meant nothing but it did and there was a heavy feeling in Mary that made her scared. "While the Lady Lola was blessed with a rather easy pregnancy, we must open our minds to the possibility that the condition of Her Majesty will be different considering their differences—also, seeing the fact that she is well into her third month of the pregnancy, it is most difficult for her body to accept such changes and this trimester, as I consider it to be, is most dangerous for woman and child alike," Mary could imagine the helpless look on her husband's face.

"But is there anything you can do? You are one of this generation's greatest minds, a feat in the medical and scientific field—are you positive that there is nothing else to be done to improve her condition?" slowly, guilt crept inside Mary's mind.

This episode was her fault entirely—what was she thinking, dancing when she could hardly come up with the strength to stand, going for so long without a drink or a meal even if her stomach couldn't keep anything in it, a disconcerting argument with Darnley in a secluded area with little ventilation? She might as well have drank poison from Catherine's collection if her intention was to harm herself and her child!

And to think that Nostradamus was getting all the tension from Francis when it should have been directed at her.

"As much as I would like to take credit for your flattery, Majesty, I cannot truly live up to those claims you offer me," she heard heavy footsteps and the door creaked open. "Before I take my leave, just a bit of advice, Your Majesty, to prevent similar situations from occurring again—I highly suggest that you keep refreshments near the Queen as she is easily exhausted and dehydration is a factor as to why she had fainted earlier and that she avoid unnecessary sudden burst of emotions," there was a silent exchanging of thanks and after the doors closed there was a moment of silence.

"You don't have to pretend that you're sleeping, you know," opening her eyes, Mary saw her husband sitting down beside her. "The uneven breathing gave it away, even Nostradamus knew," helping her up, Francis lifted a cup of water to her lips. "You've heard our conversation so there's no use to repeating whatever he said," there was this high tension between them that made them estranged. For the first time since the failed coup, Mary felt so distanced and different from her husband.

"You're angry, aren't you?" she whispered low. She's been with Darnley in the room for hours, God knows what French Court thinks of them now.

With a heavy sigh, Francis shook his head and laid down on the bed with her. "I'm not mad, I know that you did certain things because you needed to and while I haven't got a clue on what happened between you two, know that I wouldn't be the man I was before when you were with Condé and the same man my father was—just moments earlier, I've learned that our biggest and most fatal weakness is the inability to trust when facing our most irrational of fears," taking her into his arms, Mary felt so comfortable in the familiar warmth and the easing tension between them. "I just want you to know that I trust you and the only reason I want you avoiding Darnley is because he's not good for you," weaving his fingers into hers, Francis lead his hand to her flat stomach.

"Or the baby," Mary finished the simple sentence and felt that the world was right with them. Just the three of them, she felt so empowered and so secured.

"And while I know that you have this _need_ to become a martyr or a hero, can't you let the sword and shield wait for a while?" a soft chuckle escaped Mary as she pictured herself a warrior queen with her husband, riding a horse and fully armored, raising his sword to lead his men into a battle of wit and strength. Mary realized that she could easily picture herself as anything as long as Francis is by her side in the world she imagines.

Mary could never stand his absence, perhaps insanity, but never his absence. Maybe the reason why she could easily think of the future and alternate universes with Francis is because she can never think of a tomorrow without her husband.

"I am not going to ride off into a battle unarmed, Francis," she assured softly but he shook his head defiantly. The look on his face spoke volumes and yelled a thousand words to Mary.

"But you would, and you will take Darnley to his grave— _and while I'm sure that's a reality the both of us will certainly enjoy_ —I'm not so sure about the path you'll thread because knowing you, Mary, you will stop at absolutely _nothing_ to fight for what you believe in your heart and mind is right. . .even the threat of _death_ you will ignore if for the sake of the people you love and for the cause you are fighting for," tightening his embrace, Mary felt how utterly terrified her husband was. She could see the need in his actions to prove to other and to herself that he is not his father.

Living under the shadow of a strong king feared by his subjects, Francis stood for everything that represented change and yet the people still see in him his early actions that resembled that of his father's, Henry II. Even Mary couldn't entirely say that she's never seen the powerful Valois personality take over her husband. It would be a lie for Mary to say that she rarely sees her father-in-law in Francis because the raw determination and the will-power she sees in his eyes could be enough to say that he truly is the son of Henry II.

"You know that I would never approach him if not needed," Mary tried to remind her husband while enjoying the intimate moment they shared. "I will strongly fight for what I believe in, Francis, and I believe that I have the responsibility to keep the situation in hand because he is my cousin and he was brought to France under the contract that I orchestrated with Elizabeth and her council but I will never endanger our family or our child. . .even if I have to give up my cause in bringing this scum to light," a soft smile played on Francis' lips as he heard the words, a smile that made Mary's heart flutter.

It was a smile that made Mary wish for more of those smiles. A smile that made you giddy, something that made you want to earn more of his precious grins.

Mocking disappointment, he gave Mary a look. "Is that all? You do know that French Court started gossiping about you and Darnley the moment you left the room— _the French are notorious for their gossips, mind you_ —perhaps it's time we tell them our little secret, don't you think? Surely, it will put the rumors into rest," Mary could see past through the joking manner and see for herself hoe serious the question was. Perhaps it had something to do with a masculine pride or something about the feeling of paternal joy, there was nothing Francis wanted than having the whole world know that she was carrying his child.

"Not now," she thought deeply. It would be a bad time to present her pregnancy. It would seem like they were covering up for something big. "Perhaps after some time when we finish and settle this matter with Darnley," with a rather obviously disappointed sigh, Francis planted a kiss on her temple. "Don't worry, I promise you that by the time this whole situation ends, you will be surprised by the announcement I am to make," with a teasing smile, Francis tightened his embrace and closed his eyes in anticipation of a dream, perhaps of a day not so far away, where the world is to acknowledge the family he will have.

Mary could see the hope in his eyes and excited breathing.

"Alright," he relented and gave in, "but know that I'm holding you to your promise!"

* * *

 _ **You got there a sneak peak into what's going to be a future problem on top of every problem aligned. I do not own the idea of Ninya Tippett's phrases and words. She's an amazing author by the way, she wrote 'The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield' a current favourite of mine.** _


	18. Chapter XVII

The silence and lack of servants did Mary a lot of good—she had grown sick of the people attending to her, and while she appreciates the effort they put into their jobs, Mary has often found herself fighting the urge to proclaim that she's not helpless and that she can do things for herself.

Soon, she cringed. _If being a Queen of France meant such attention_ , Mary thought to herself, _then how will they behave around me if they find out that I'm carrying Francis' child? After all, in this day and age, becoming pregnant and delivering a child is the greatest honor and a woman's fulfillment of her duty_.

Removing this sudden thought, Mary welcomed the cool sea breeze as the wind blew gently at her face while she greatly enjoyed the view of the open sea. It gave her such joy knowing that in this political world of back-stabbing and treachery— _and even murder_ —there was a peaceful retreat merely adjacent to French court and Mary rejoiced in the fact that even though it was near that palace filled with memories of difficulties, it couldn't reach the banks of the sea where she enjoyed the sight of her husband preparing their small picnic as he battled the wind blowing through his blonde curls, trying to fix them once the strands reach his face.

"You look deep in thought," Francis smiled at her as he sat down beside her. "Tell me, what are you thinking about," Mary opened her mouth to try say something but fell flat silent when Francis grinned excitedly and cut her off before even uttering a single word. "No, wait, let me guess—it's about a surprise announcement of your pregnancy and you're going to tell me before sharing the good news with the rest of the castle?" Mary found herself laughing as tears sprung to her eyes. Her husband, she can be sure of, is a hopeful man.

Placing a hand on his, Mary fought back a smile before shaking her head sadly. "You know that I can't, not _just_ yet anyway—even after weeks of this _trimester_ , as Nostradamus calls it, I could still easily lose the child and I don't want anybody's sympathy or criticizing eyes should it happen," the conversation took a more serious tone as Mary looked deep into her husband's blue eyes. "I just need you to wait a little longer," with a tight smile, Francis brought her hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss.

"You know that I will—even a _thousand_ years go by, I will still wait by your side with faith or trust unwavering," Mary had let out a soft gasp or something like it. It was the only response she could come up with as something in her rib cage—something like her heart—had melted from the words she just heard.

"Well," Mary leaned close to her husband, merely inches apart from his lips. "Know that I am quite satisfied with you by my side for a thousand years," and with that being said, Francis had leaned down and captured her lips in a sweet and gentle kiss that would have melted her resolve to keep her pregnancy a secret. Who, in their right mind, would want to deprive such happiness to a man who could kiss like _that_?

Breaking apart from the kiss, Mary scrunched up her nose as she smelled the familiar scent of her herbal tea. "No," she shook her head softly as her husband took it out the basket. "None of those," she tried to get away from her husband's grasps, but he was far too strong. His hands had enveloped her all around as she squirmed, trying to break away. "Please, that _mixture_ is wretched! Even Catherine's poisons tasted better!" Francis raised a brow and Mary remembered the days when Catherine de Medici wanted to get rid of her because of a prophecy that depicts his death.

"Well, it's your words against your's, Mary—your trimester isn't finished and the tea gives you the vitamins and nutrients you need," stroking her cheek gently, Mary sighed and took the cup into her hands. "Look, even color has returned to your face and your morning sickness has been more mild," he pointed out and as much as Mary wants to throw the cup's content into the sea, Nostradamus has been constantly telling her of the tea's marginally beneficial effects to the child she carries in her womb.

And as it turns out, Mary's love for her child was far greater than her love for her taste-buds.

With a smile on Francis' face— _surely, he considers her drinking as a small victory_ —Mary made a face. "Now that _tea time_ is done and over with," Mary pushed herself to her feet, much to the chagrin, worry and protests of her husband. "You have got to attend your meetings," Francis' eyebrows had scrunched up together. "You're the King of France and while you've made several excuses to limit my duties and activities, I'm afraid we can't deprive France of both her King and Queen," Francis stood up and applied a gentle pressure on her shoulders, a force that implied her to sit down again.

"Always so righteous and generous," he muttered under his breath as looked deep into her eyes, a gaze that made the whole world around Mary disappear. "Have you grown tired of my company already?" It was a teasing tone and Mary placed a hand to his cheek, although Francis removed his hands from her shoulder to bring Mary's fingertips to his lips. "When will you realize that I will put my wife first, that it is you who I prioritize above all," Mary let out a hearty sigh.

"Francis, you know that I love you and but you should know that I _heard_ you," confusion was written all over her husband's face as a smile smile settled on her face when she lead them both back into a path, a narrow gravel road leading back to the castle.

"I don't quite understand," Francis muttered.

Mary started walking back to the castle. "Remember when I've just returned from the convent? There was this prophecy and your mother tried so hard to avoid the the supposed results," although confused and lost, Francis nodded and Mary smiled. "I remember that as one of the events that truly made me fall in love with you—I remember approaching you to share my suspicions about Catherine terrorizing me to abandon the engagement," Mary stopped in her tracks and turned around to face her husband. "I don't know why I attempted it, but I wanted to intercept your mother and give her a piece of my mind but then I heard your voice, don't you remember the conversation you had with her?" The cluelessness on his face spoke volumes and Mary stifled a laugh. "You said that, one day, you hoped that you would make a good king—"Mary was cut off by a simple sound from Francis and she smiled.

He remembers.

"I hoped that I would make a good King by making sure that I put nothing, no love, above my love and duty for France—I understand why you're doing this now," Mary smiled as they reached the palace doors. "I really do hope that one day both France and Scotland could see how lucky they are for having such a giving Queen," leaning down to capture her lips, Francis whispered softly. "Because you are _all_ I see," a wide smile stretched through Mary's face as she realized that they were already by the doors to the meeting hall.

Fixing his shirt's collar and straightening the ruffles of his coat, Mary tip-toes to place a kiss on his cheek. "Show these men that a king can love both his country and wife at the same time," Francis nodded gently and soon, the guards and crier announced her husband's arrival inside the room.

Now alone—not counting the guards posted by the doors of the meeting hall—Mary was rather surprised and irritated when someone was whistling a tune. "That was a rather touching and romantic parting of husband and wife," the voice made Mary's blood boil but remembered Nostradamus' advice of not having any extreme feelings of hatred. Calming herself down, Mary calmly turned around to face the man who threatened her just weeks ago. "Majesty, aren't you glowing? Perhaps a common side effect of being young and in love?" The voice sneered as Mary felt a rather forceful tug by her arm.

Immediately, the guards tensed up.

"Unhand the Queen, Lord Darnley, or we will be forced to subdue you," the more fierce-looking stated firmly. Darnley merely laughed and grinned.

"Oh, this? This is absolutely nothing," the grip on Mary's hand quickly was loosened up. "You see, the Queen asked for something the last time we've talked and it's by the courtyard, arrived finally from Scotland—Her Majesty loves everything Scottish, she's patriotic—and she' eager to see the evidence that I've kept my word of bringing her a sight from her country," immediately, after remembering their conversation, Mary's eyes narrowed. Grinning to her, Darnley offered his hand to Mary. "Remember, it's to die for, Your Majesty," rejecting his hand, Mary went ahead to the courtyard.

* * *

"What is this?"

Mary rushed forward to the injured children and stopped in her tracks when she saw bodies covered in gauze and white cloth. It pained her to see children being carried out of the carriages, the white shrouds were stained with crimson red—blood. "You see this?" Darnley walked to her side as she covered her mouth with her hand. "This is the evidence I've told you about," looking smug when he peered over her face, Darnley snickered before crossing his arms. Mary's blood boiled at the sight of people suffering, their nationalities or where their loyalties lied suddenly mattered little or absolutely nothing.

Mary felt for the children who were badly suffering and anguish for those already motionless inside the shrouds they never deserved at such an early age. Then, Mary couldn't see such logic in the scene before her: there were suffering around the courtyard and yet the guards were doing nothing in the endeavor to help a single soul. "By God, _guards_!" The armoured men came rushing to their Queen. "There are people— _children_ —dying in front of you and yet no one, not a single well-bodied man, helping them!" Mary's feet carried her to a wounded girl whose skin was burned and her injuries possibly infected. "Get them to Nostradamus or to anyone who can tend to the sick while the others can get a priest to pray for them," Mary was pained to look at the un-moving bodies piled together.

Feeling lightheaded, Mary turned away from the sight when she heard the suddenly familiar tapping of boots. It happened to irk her that she's become so familiar with Darnley that she didn't have to turn around to know that it's him. His presence had both angered her beyond reason and scared her beyond her wits. He angered her because he was capable of such marginal damage and she was scared because he's capable of such marginal damage that he could easily harm her and her unborn child. The possibilities ran wild and Mary grew more terrified of him.

How could a man be so heartless as to do this to children?

"What have you done?" She whispered harshly as she fought the tears from springing to her eyes. Mary could not afford to look vulnerable to Darnley now, of all moments. "Are you so hell-bent as to prove how powerful you are that you have to bring these innocent children to your war with me?" Covering her lips with the back of her hand to hide up the quivering and to prevent the sob from escaping her, Mary refused to look at the man in front of her. "You are despicable and I will take personal satisfaction as to see you pay for the deeds you've done," instead of seeing the smug and proud look on his face, Mary saw anger to match her's.

"What have _I_ done?" He said through gritted teeth in hushed tones. "Mary, you should ask yourself because everything you've set your eyes upon was completely _your_ doing, cousin, and know that the spilled blood of the innocent is stained on your flesh and no matter how many times you wash your hands of it like Pontius Pilate, you've killed those children along with the people you call your friends, your allies— _the Pope and King Philip II_ —aided you in your righteous mission, you so-called ' _Defenders of the Faith_ ' when you've done nothing but executing people by branding them as heretics before leaving them to die in a fire!" Mary gasped. Burned because of religion?

"But do you have proof to show that this is caused by my greatest allies? I cannot break away from them only because of the words of a man who could be a Protestant Knox-supporter?"

"These children are from Edinburgh and Lewis—places where they get their food by shipping and where the Vatican's peace keepers are depriving their allies of their needed supplies! And what's worse is that you damned Papists wouldn't leave it at hunger but they have to burn them!"


	19. Chapter XVIII

Pulling Darnley to a more secluded area where little can hear their conversation, Mary felt a headache creep up on her.

"How do I know that you're not the _real_ cause of this damage? We both know that you're more than capable with your wealth to buy a army and your political immunity in several nations," Mary whispered harshly through gritted teeth. "How do I know that you're not set in a mission to start a global war with the greatest power in Europe— _two Scotland's greatest allies_ —in a scheme to get the throne, to crown yourself?" it was, after all, in his favor should a war between Scotland and her greatest supporters, the Catholic lords and the money and the men the Vatican would lend her when France could not.

However, Darnley was barely impressed with her accusations as if something was so obvious, that it was in front of her and yet she couldn't grasp the concept. "If I wanted to start a revolution and take over Scotland— _the gruesome last resort which implies your death on my hands_ —then I would have seized Stirling Castle and took control already, after all, we both know that I'm more than capable with my wealth and political immunity," there was a smug tone to his voice that made Mary see red as he used her words against her.

There was a moment of silence between them and strained look on Darnley's face gave Mary this odd feeling.

Pacing around, the English-Scottish merchant nobleman took Mary's had in an attempt to convince her. From the tightness of his grip, Mary could feel the desperation and she could feel his pulse against her skin weakly. "Listen, we are from the same blood— _we're family_ —and the last thing I want to do is to harm my Queen and my cousin, and for what? To take over a throne and the power it holds, things I've resented almost my whole life for framing my father? To deliberately destroy the country I love, a land I've recently reconciled and returned to after such a long time?" there, Mary could see it that the man in front of her was not an Englishman rather a Scot who was forced to England by her mother.

Taking a step backwards to access the situation, what did Darnley truly have against her that could motivate him to scheme and act towards the throne? Other than the framing of his father, what could possibly fuel aggression? What evidence could she hold against her cousin to say that he's lying?

"You know, it's quite difficult for me to admit this but it's true, you're Scotland and everything you do represents Scotland— _even the blood that pounds in your veins screams Scotland_ —and you are actually a far better ruler than Knox and his group of fanatics would ever be," in that respect, Mary agreed with Darnley. "That man's mind lives through each day as if the Vikings were still rampaging, but even those ghastly men knew better; it's the new age, Mary, and women are proving themselves to be the architects," despite the compliment, the genuine commendation, Mary felt like there was something missing.

" _But_. . ?" she trailed off, in efforts of encouraging something next or an explanation to clarify everything that's happened.

The look on Darnley's face was strained. "While I know that you're a ruler whose intentions are only meant to improve the conditions in your kingdom, you rule with your heart and because of that, you couldn't see everything that has come to happen," looking across a window to see the sight of the bodies and injured people, Mary felt her breathing come to a stop. "And before you say anything, I understand that France has stood strong by your side as an ally after _all_ these years but you need to see for yourself the destructive relationship you have with France," in the courtyard, she sees the guards carrying the bleeding children, leaving a trail of blood in the ground.

Confused, Mary stared at Darnley, as if his face and its entirety would give her an answer. "But I thought that this was caused by my decision to ally myself with Elizabeth, the queen of a Protestant country that is England," in Mary's mind, it all made sense that should everything Darnley mentioned to her was true, then her newly-made alliance with Elizabeth is to blame. Surely, her Catholic lords and King Philip aren't pleased with her decision but to blame this on her alliance with France, her marriage with _Francis_?

"While your decision to give up your birthright sparked the light of the actual alliance, it's the French government who secured the alliance, your _husband_ who reached out to Elizabeth to finalize the deal and your signature only empowered _Francis' word_ , not the other way around," in a way, Mary blamed Knox and in another, she blamed the patriarchal society. The world was progressing into an advanced society and yet the men were still dominant and she still lived in a world where she couldn't act without her husband.

Slowly digesting the words offered to her, Mary caught on to his implications. "You want me to end my alliance with France, my marriage with Francis," it all made sense to her suddenly. Darnley had been hinting at it for so long, his hatred directed at her was suddenly clearly intended for her association with the French, his hidden anger was so exposed and Mary could see that he hated the way the alliance that Francis had secured affected Scotland.

It all made sense, how Darnley would often require and request for her audience without Francis— _of how Darnley approached her at the ball after Francis left to talk with Bash_ —and that conversation they had. . .ever memory in her mind suddenly was suddenly fixed into this bigger picture where it all made sense, where it all pointed towards one thing and while Mary desperately tried to remove the thought from her mind, while she was trying to convince herself that he was hinting at another thing.

With a heavy sigh, the look on Darnley's face was all she required to know what he would say.

"Yes, you need to end your alliance, but above all, you need to end your marriage to Francis."


	20. Chapter XIX

There was this urge in Mary that demanded for her to yell for help. A part of her wanted to scream for guards to come rushing to her aid, the logical part of her demanded her feet to start moving from this man who has just told her to end her marriage with Francis, the love of her life and the very essence of her existance.

How can he, a man who says he does not want to hurt her, argue against a love as compassionate and rare like their's? How can she trust him as he's proved nothing to be worth of her trust? How can she gamble just like that?

But Mary did little to distance herself from Darnley, despite the little voice inside of her telling her to get away. "I know that this is a lot to take in— _hell_ , I know that you're doubting my words," Mary narrowed her eyes into thin slits. He was right, she was doubting his word and _rightfully_ so, if she may add. To tear Scotland apart from an alliance that has protected her since she was a child from the English who wanted her throne. "And I understand that but know that I can prove it to you that ending your marriage with Francis will save both Scotland and France," and suddenly, Mary's every resolve vanished into the air. It didn't made sense, it did not add up in her mind because it was all so different. Darnley has made it so clear that his intentions are to protect Scotland alone but now he's included France into the mix?

Mary's mind was all in shambles. " _France_. . .what's happening with France?" it was not supposed to said out loud, but Mary found herself whispering to Darnley in utter confusion. With Scotland, it made sense, but with France it was all so vague and blurry an image to see. It was like a cloud to the entire sky or a grain of sand to an entire beach! It revealed to little and too much at the same time.

"I hate to admit this, but France is crucial to Scotland's survival, at first as an ally but because the tides have turned, you must find yourself able to accomodate change," Mary crossed her arms. Why should she accomodate such a drastic and risky move such as destroying an alliance that was carefully negotiated when she was a child?

Why should she take on Darnley's word?

"France was seen as a _pivotal_ character in the alliance with England, angering Spain and Rome because they see it as tolerance for Protestantism and eventual adoption of the faith," pacing around, he took out a pamphlet. "This was published some months ago and the people are complaining about the change brought about the alliance in France," taking the paper into her hands, Mary's brows furrowed when she caught the words of _Spanish Peacekeepers_ and the _Pope's elite Swiss guards_. What were they doing in France instead of Scotland?

"Look at the date," Mary squinted her eyes at the printed date at the bottom of the paper, "only a few weeks after the alliance was made known to the public, the King of Spain and the Pope sent these surveyers to check in with the people to see if they accepted Protestantism despite their alibi of being merchants," there was a sketch of an insignia. Mary swore under her breath, she's seen this before, "they bear the arms of the Don Carlos, the Prince of Spain," and then she remembered, the wedding of King Philip to Elisabeth. Don Carlos was there and he had displayed his own arms during the event.

"By God, what have they done?" Mary muttered in horror when the sketches of burning houses were accompanied by the pictures of Spanish soldiers and the stories that tell tales of the brutality and madness. "This is _absurd_! King Philip is a good friend of Francis, an ally of France, and the _husband_ of Elisabeth. . .why would he do this?" she held the pamphlet back to Darnley, wishing yet utterly unable to unsee the horrors the pages brought to her, the enlightenment that terrified her.

"Because he's the so-called _Defender of the Faith_ , he finds it fit to see that people, or heretics as he calls them, are tied to a stake and burned along with everything they own!" Darnley inserted the pamphlet back into his vest when something caught Mary's eyes.

"Give me that!" with lightning speed, the paper was back into her hands and she examined the name of the author of the pamphlet. Mary held up the pamphlet, he finger pointing to a fine print. "This was written by a _Catholic_ noble!" although from a minor cadet branch of Guise, Mary knew well that the man was no Protestant. "Why would he write this if he's a Catholic? Surely, the Spaniards wouldn't lift a finger to harm a Catholic, let alone a French _nobleman_ ," expecting something else, Darnley sighed and shook his head.

"They're not after the Protestants, Mary, they are after the French— _according to my network of spies, Philip considers this his personal mission; religion will not save anyone_ —and while they haven't got an excuse good enough to disguise as a reason to start a war, this is what they're doing. Once, not if, they target bigger nobles with far bigger influences and better strongholds, King Francis will have _no_ choice but to attack and that will lead into—" Darnley didn't need to finish for Mary to catch unto his words, the meaning implied behind his desperate explanations.

Taking a step back, Mary couldn't help but gasp even though her finger had covered her lips. "My God, he's provoking Francis! Once we retaliate, a war will be inevitable," the horrors came rushing to Mary's mind. "The army is too spread out, we have little active troops that aren't stationed by the borders and the men we do have the ability to deploy now are," looking out the window to see the men, som grandfathers and some just teenagers, "aged and inexperienced!" taking her hands into his, Darnley lead Mary towards the door.

Taking a step forward, Darnley took Mary's hand in an attempt to convince her. "Scotland's breaking away from the Auld Alliance will be _crucial_ for your country's survival and for _France's_ _protection_ —if Francis couldn't afford to protect his country right now, how can he help your country when France is in utter chaos?" and then everything went silent.

Darnley swore under his breathe and peered outside the window. They had been together for far too long. "We can't talk right now, but I can show you more—try to convince your husband to let you outside the castle, tell him you're going to visit the old nunnery you were raised at, and you will see for yourself the destruction of France," dipping his head low, Darnley slipped through the door leaving Mary conflicted—she promised him that she would never lie or keep secrets as he swore to her.

Is she so willing to risk her life and marriage? Will she have to break her promises again? Will this be a disaster like Condé?

 _So help me, God_ , Mary whispered silently as she found herself in front of the doors to Francis' study, being announced by her husband's page.

 _Francis, I am so sorry_.


	21. Chapter XX

The door creaked open and Francis' heard the familiar squeaky rubber boots his page usually wears. He smiled at the memory of the celebration of Christmas, it was Mary who had given the servants ( _And their families!_ ) of the castle some useful and beautiful gifts. ' _My wife will never cease to show the people of France her golden heart_ ,' Francis thought silently as he continued to study the alliance contract between Spain and France in hopes of fixing the problem before it blows up and reaches Mary.

"King Francis, Her Majesty, the Queen Mary is requesting for a private audience," immediately, Francis removed his attention from the contracts and stared at his page with confusion. _' **Mary**? Asking for an audience?_ ' the thought raced in his mind and the first assumption would be about their baby. Worry fell on his face as he stood up and raced towards the door. ' _Had something happened to Mary? Is the child. . ?_ ' Francis didn't want to finish that thought, it brought so much bad memories to his mind that he couldn't bear to imagine that a miscarriage would happen again when he suddenly came face to face with his wife.

Seeing her safe and sound brought relief to his mind but his heart began to beat wildly when he saw the worried expression on her face.

Feeling a breath of relief leaving his lips, Francis looked over Mary's shoulder and smiled at his page. "That's all for now, Thomas, thank you," he dismissed the young and fair-haired page, his heart beating in anticipation for the familiar click of the door to signal that the unneeded audience had left the room. "Now, what is it? What's troubling you?" Francis asked gently, leading Mary to a small sofa near the fireplace to get warm and comfortable as he watched her face morph into confusion.

A look that said, ' _How did he know?_ ' or something along those lines and implications.

"You normally don't announce yourself— _and I happen to like it that way_ —what happened?" Mary bit her lip and her thumbs had played with each other. There was this uncomfortable silence and Francis immediately decided that he did not like it. He longed for the days when they were able to tell each other of every single problem without pause nor hesitation. He missed those times where opening up to one another was as easy as breathing for the both of them.

Indeed. What had happened in the short, _short_ span of a few hours?

The wood was crackling under the heat of the fire and Francis would have not heard his wife had he been a few more inches away from Mary, but he saw her lips move and the words they spelled had froze his blood. "The injured in the courtyard, the countless dead, the Scottish people—how did _that_ happen?" and there it was, the silence between them that Francis hated with a burning passion and yet he couldn't utter a single word, not a sound escaped his ajar lips; it was like a spell that someone had cast upon him and there was nothing in the world that he wanted more than to be rid of the inability to be honest.

The people in the courtyard were supposed to be hidden from Mary, the effects of the growing tension between France, the Vatican, and the _Fidei Defensor_ , King Philip of Spain. He had no idea on how he could protect his country from the devastating forces delivered by the mercenaries on a so-called " _religious pilgrimage_ " from Spain and the Vatican while avoiding a war with the people who undoubtedly empowers him as a King and France as a Catholic nation.

"Why were you in the courtyard, Mary?" it was a soft question. No one but Sebastian knew of the people, they had prepared an excuse and staged an event to back a story wherein they came to the rescue of the poor people who lost their homes to a great fire. "No one was supposed to know, how did you find out?" He hated the deafening silence that would consume the lot between them, the absence of being open to one another happened to be the most excruciating feeling in the world and his pounding heart made sure it was never forgotten.

"I hear the maids whisper in the halls," it was almost a whisper, shaky as it was. "And I've heard that the convent was involved in the fire," that word triggered an enormous amount of memories and of understanding. Three of Mary's maids were actually girls from the convent she had lived with. "I've spoken to a few of the survivors and I've learned that the convent wasn't entirely destroyed by the fire and I've been wanting to see the nuns who raised me," though it made sense, Francis was far from impressed.

While it is true, that some of Mary's maids were girls from the convent and that her secretary was a nephew of the a nun named Agnes, someone who the English had poisoned to get to Mary, nobody was allowed to gossip about the happenings in the courtyard— _little knew about the happening_ —so how did she find out? The courtyard wasn't even supposed to be a part of her day because he had specifically asked Claude to keep her occupied and her activities kept at a firm distance from the courtyard.

She had someone tell her, whether willingly or not, that much he could tell.

"And I just want to make sure that they're alright," he saw, by the corner of his eyes, that Mary was playing with her thumb fidgeting. "And to help while I can—which is the very least I _can_ do, Francis, knowing that they have raised me will give my morale a little boost, unlike staying by the bed inside our chambers, _however_. . ." she trailed off, once again hinting at her distaste of being kept inside her chambers. Taking his arm, Francis melted at her touch. "I owe them that much," he could see in her eyes, the dreamy and warm brown orbs that he would willingly drown in, the genuine need to help.

"Very well, but you have to take someone, for your protection," Mary raised a brow and crossed her arms. This piqued his interest.

"The last trip I had, I brought with me dozens of servers and men—how does that help?" Francis couldn't fight off the smile lurking by the ends of his lips. He expected this kind of witty retort from Mary, and although he couldn't suspect any kind of complaint against a traveling companion, Mary always felt like she needed to have the last laugh. One way or another, she will fight with the best of her abilities to achieve that honor rightfully—and she will win inevitably.

"Are you, by any chance, trying to dissuade me? Because I can tell you, Mary, it's looking that way," his wife merely shook her head and gave a tight smile.

"Just pointing the flaw out, but who would you have me take, then? Hopefully not Catherine," she mutters and eyes a rather colorful rugs, a gift from an Italian nobleman. "While she's not berating me for leaving the bed, she's busy trying to blow me up to the size of a whale!" and he couldn't help himself. He had to laugh, because seeing the image of his mother scolding his wife while trying to feed her a croissant is a most precious sight to behold.

"Well, don't tempt me," an amused scoff of disbelief left Mary's lips and Francis felt like he could breathe again. He loved these moments where they're _them_. They're alone and themselves, not the King and Queen of anything. They were just Francis and Mary, and they were together. "I'll have to go and check with Charles and Bash, see if they're anywhere close to cracking the case with this overly literal heart thief enough to lend me their chief investigator," Bash would have been his first choice, no matter what.

Despite loving Delphine, Francis knows that Bash will always carry a flame for Mary. He will always fan the embers, because that's love. It doesn't _just_ fade away, there's no quitting. Francis knows that, just by seeing the way Bash's eyes light up when he's to learn of Mary's recovery. He knows that his brother's affection will not fade away, but Francis could also be sure that Bash is in love. Perhaps with Delphine, or perhaps with the idea of being in love.

"Well, I'll have to ask him," taking her hand in his before looping it around his arm, Francis' brought her to their chambers and crossed the room towards their bed. "I know that you wouldn't agree to this, but try to rest, please," _because I know you've been with someone and I could see it in your eyes that you're tired as I am_ , but those words went unsaid as he pressed his lips against her. Francis reluctantly pulled away. "I'll have to check on Bash, see if he's available as soon as tomorrow for your trip," it was a beautiful sight, the image of Mary's smile.

Albeit it being a devastatingly tired smile, the curved lips still made Francis' heart flutter like wings.

"Don't take too long, I couldn't sleep," he could see it in Mary's eyes, the unspoken words of _without you_.

"Of course, darling, anything you wish," and with a click of the door, Francis's smile turned into a frown as he adjusted his sword by his hip. He walked fast through the hall in hurry to get to the courtyard, now empty of the refugees and victims of the great fire, only to find a boy and a horse readied for him. "Where's the Master of Horse and Hunt?" Francis neared the stallion and ran his hand through its mane before climbing on his steed.

"He's by the brothel, Sire, the one managed by Her Majesty's former lady, the Lady Greer Castleroy," taking a step back, Francis felt the cold wind against his face as he rode towards the tavern, determined to end the robbing of hearts once and for all.

* * *

"Francis! I wasn't aware!" the heavily pregnant Greer motioned to a seat near Bash. "When your brother here told me that he was going to bring help from the French army, it never really crossed my mind that he'd bring the chief commander of the troops!" it was a warm and light joke that lifted the atmosphere, everyone's mood in fact, except Delphine, who seemingly felt the anger of the murderer, this heart thief that strikes fear in every heart near the village.

"Well, the castle was once infiltrated and with Mary, I couldn't take any chance," Francis eyed the beams of the tavern and the tight passageways. "Are you sure you can capture him? The chairs and tables will stall the both of you and the passageways can easily make for that damned thief's escape," there was little space in the tavern and he could almost hear Delphine's heart beat against her chest. "By God," he turned to the healer who he owed his life to, "Delphine, you're a fright! Bash, are you sure she's fine?"

Greer and Bash stopped their conversation midway and paused to look at Delphine as he held her by her arms. "What is it, what do you feel?" Bash stood up from his stool to kneel by Delphine's side. "Is he near? Is the killer _here_?" Bash asked before a loud clatter of noise was heard outside and near the wine cellar.

Francis felt his heart beat faster and he could hear almost nothing else. Will this be his end, ' _death by a lunatic who collects hearts_ '? He hoped not as he ran up through the stairs leading to the empty town square, where men and drivers of coaches were found littered on the ground. " _Blasted_!" Bash ran to one of the men and pressed two finger against the neck. "This one's dead," turning to a side, Francis saw Greer holding up an arm before shaking her head.

Francis felt scared, but then he saw movement by the carriage and saw an injured stable boy, head bloodied and shirt soaked with crimson liquid. "This one is alive!" Bash and Greer came running, their breaths visible in the cold. "You, boy, what happened? Who attacked you?" but the answer was soon forgotten when there crashing and breaking of wooden furniture. "Who did this? Boy— _no_ , don't die!" but it was effortless, the young boy's head lolled to a side.

"No," Bash muttered before rushing inside the brothel. It was only then when Francis realized what was wrong—they were missing one person; Delphine was left inside to deal with the murderer.

Taking Greer's hand, Francis lead her to a scene he wanted to forget. It was an image burned permanently in Francis' mind and he couldn't help but think of the situation with him and Mary. It hurts because it's so real and it could happen so easily. "I tried to. . . _subdue_ him, Bash," Delphine was on the floor, in a tangled mess of broken wood and blood pooling around her. "I tried my best to be. . .s-strong, but he was too much," the scene rang familiar in his mind, Francis thought to himself, as he remembered Mary's pleas and crying.

She was begging him to come back to her.

" _Don't_ ," Bash gently pressed a finger against Delphine's shivering lips. "Save your energy, we'll get you to Nostradamus to the castle—just don't say anything," Francis rarely saw his brother like this; a mess trying to block off truth and believing a false reality or some kind of lie.

Delphine's lips glistened with red, Francis was frozen in his spot. His feet were glued and tied down to the ground. "Bash," his brother tried to get her to rest, but it was fruitless. It was obviously the end for Delphine, and while it was difficult to admit, the amount of blood spoke for itself. "Listen. . . _please_ ," Bash was left to wordlessly apply pressure to the open wound. "I only did it because _I love you_ ," she rasped through the bloodied lips. "I was only a woman who loved someone I couldn't have," and there was silence between them.

Delphine had fallen as another victim to the heart thief, and while her heart was still intact, Bash's universe was shattered into pieces.


	22. Chapter XXI

"Presenting, His Majesty, the King!"

The page announced and Francis saw before his eyes the double doors leading to his mother's chambers fly open and welcomed the unsurprisingly familiar room. The ever-spacious center was clear of any obstacle and the dead parrots were set aside to a single corner, probably to be taken away before his mother leaves for dinner with the rest of the family. Catherine de Medici's chambers looks like how it is supposed to be—poisonous and intimidating like the woman who calls it home.

Inviting himself to a couch, Francis unceremoniously plopped down on the velvet cushioned seat and heard rattling and clinking of glass bottles. "Just a moment, Francis, I'm just organizing this _blasted_ cabinet," and after a few second of more glass bottle clicking against another, the Queen Mother appeared from a bend, looking regal as ever and sauntered across the room towards the edge of her bed and sat down. "To what do I owe this visit, hmm?" his mother asked pointedly, no beating around the bush.

"It's about Darnley," Francis saw his mother's eyes widen. Little manages to surprise Catherine de Medici, and this event prove to be one of the rare exceptions. "He's already spread out his spies in court, it's far too gone for us to rectify that— _however_ , there is something we need to prevent, and that's Mary's growing acquaintance with him," there was a moment of silence between Francis and his mother. He had half-expected her to go on and ramble about how Mary is committing all the same mistakes she had done before, and yet his mother was silent.

"Is there anything else I need to know besides the things I _already_ know?" the stiff upper body, the cold and rigid eyes. Francis knew one thing for sure, and that was his mother's expressions. She was too stiff, too composed. She knew something as well, and he didn't know what it was.

"Yes," twisting the ring on his finger, Francis stared blankly across the window and gazed at the blue skies. "It seems that Mary found out about the fires, not only in Scotland, but also in France. My first thought was that her informant was Darnley, but the social circle is too wide to close down any other suspicions. She said she's going to visit the old convent, see if the nuns survived the fire, but there's something more to that," there was suddenly a change in mood, something like a nerve struck in the wrong way.

"And why aren't you stopping her? If you're so scared of losing her to Darnley like how you lost her to Condé, then do something about there," Francis felt his mother eyeing him. "And she's pregnant! By God, if she won't tell the people that she's expecting, she shouldn't be surprised if the next person to greet her is a midwife set to check on her because _I'll_ be telling the people!" there was a humorless laugh at the end, a dry and difficult sound to hear and yet Francis found it so hard to remove from his mind.

Was she right? Absolutely—he is scared out of his wits, trying to believe that Darnley has no motives of sweeping Mary off her feet.

"Because I can't! There are too many risks to take if I were to force Mary to stay, or ask Darnley to leave, or tell her of the situation all together," pointing fingers could spark a movement to end all of France. A wrong move could begin an intercontinental war, and while Elizabeth is his ally, there is little assurance that she will join a Catholic cause. "Right now, I'm gathering evidences enough to condemn Darnley so the whole situation could finally blow over—but right now, Mother, I _need_ you to join Mary in her trip to the convent." There was a moment of silence.

"Another trip outside the castle walls? Francis, I'm not sure if you've been hearing properly but Nostradamus himself has said it―Mary's pregnancy isn't the easiest of them all and she's not exactly the healthiest of carrying women. Forgive me for saying this," her tone was far from sorry, though. "Francis, your wife is not fit for traveling! Convince her to stay here! Need I remind you of our last tour outside the castle walls? You nearly lost her and now you're willing to risk her again?" Francis breathed in deep.

"There's political instability and tension with the nobles, not to mention a killer loose and on a rampage for hearts who is possibly working inside the castle, and I don't want Mary to be a part of the collateral damage. I need her to be away from the things that could harm her and the child," Francis looked uncertain, staring out the window as if he was trying to calm himself down. "Besides, the countryside might be good for Mary's health," Francis offered hopefully, but there was doubt in his voice. It was like he was trying to convince himself rather than his mother.

" _Please_ , save the theatrics for someone who's stupid enough to be fooled, Francis, don't insult me by thinking that you can," Catherine de Medici sighed before regally sitting down on a sofa right across her son's position. Clearing her throat, she looked to the side, avoiding the looks her son was giving her. Sometimes, Francis wished that things were different, that his life could should have been something easier and more simple rather than a king baited in politics.

"So, are you going to travel with her?" Francis asked silently, his finger still twisting the ring that decorated his hand, a ring that symbolized the relationship he has with Mary.

His mother looked surprised as if the question took her by surprise. "Well, I couldn't exactly leave your wife to the vultures, now could we?" standing up, Catherine brought herself in front of a mirror and brought with her two article of clothing. "Now, Francis, what shall I bring with me—mink fur or fine silk from China?" Catherine turned to face Francis, whose face was buried in his hands. Silence ruled over the lot as his mother let out a sigh before putting down the red silk.

"It's mink, isn't it? The obvious choice is mink fur."


	23. Chapter XXII

Mary felt the carriage rock her gently and it would have sufficed if it weren't for the need to constantly wrack and empty her stomach and the fact that Catherine was offering her so much to eat every now and then, a drink to help calm when the clock comes striking at every hour. But she was thankful for Francis wasn't with her, forcing into her hand a cup of that wretched tea.

Mary's expression had softened when she remembered her dearest husband. She felt a pang of guilt explode in her chest as she remembered what she had done to Francis who has been nothing but loving and kind and generous and honest. That last word she thought of brought guilt to her when she felt the carriage move rocking her, moving across the fields of France that would bring her to the countryside where Darnley was waiting for her. Mary bit her lip as her heart ached—secrets tore her and Francis apart the last time, and here she carrying on with secrets knowing that she could tear them apart once more.

Mary caught Catherine looking at her strangely in the corner of her eyes. She had this disapproving look planted on her face. "A pregnant woman should not be depressed, Mary, it's not good for the child," Catherine grabbed the container and took out a bundle of sage, placing it securely near the window. Mary raised a brow at Catherine before she remembered how her mother-in-aw had burst into her room when she was _with_ Francis during her first pregnancy.

Catherine looked warily at the walls as if evil spirits had visited her.

Mary forced out a smile even though it did not feel quite right with her. "I'm perfectly happy, Catherine. I am, after all, in _your_ presence," while it was sarcastic, it held truth and Mary knew that Catherine caught on to the real and underlying meaning. Truth be told, Mary was quite lonely inside her carriage during her previous trip. She was supposed to go to a village and treat the villagers to a feast for Michaelmas when she was suddenly attacked. A seasoned and experienced companion inside her carriage would have greatly influenced the following events but Mary shook her head, there's no use in dwelling in the past.

After all, Francis bent the rules even if it's until she fully recovered from her condition, allowing Queens to accompany each other despite the precedence of being _the_ Queen and not just being a Queen.

Catherine shot Mary an amused smile, before taking a look outside the window, grimacing at the sight before her. Mirroring Catherine, Mary looked out the window and saw buildings and foundations, reminding her of the village where Greer was. Then, Mary suddenly remembered Bash and wondered how hurt he is at the moment. Mary remembered then remembered Delphine—if the only the situation with France and Scotland and all the other problems with Spain and Rome would magically disappear, or if the burden of keeping France safe from a hostile, political takeover, Mary would have been attending the funeral of a dear friend who she owes so much.

But she owes France as well, the Valois family, and she could not stand to become the reason why a strong family, a deserving and generous leader— _a good and loving man that she knows her husband is_ —would fall to disgrace and even lead them to death. Mary may have been able to gamble with the life of Francis but only it was because she thought their love had overcome the burden of a prophecy. Maybe it had, no one will ever truly know, but for Mary to gamble the life of an entire nation when she herself is a leader?

No, Mary thought to herself, fighting back the tears to make that Catherine would not know of her struggles, she is willing to sacrifice.

Then, Mary thought of Darnley. Mary's first time meeting her cousin admittedly did not leave a good impression seeing that he had manipulated his way to be granted an audience with her. But she saw the honesty that burned in his eyes, the sincerity in his voice when Darnley voiced his love for her country, a land they both have been long separated from.

Strangely, Mary felt for Darnley. Her mother was, in fact, the reason why Darnley and his family were cast out of Scotland just so that her mother could solidify her hand on the reins for the control of Scotland. And while yes, it was for her, she too was shipped off overseas because of the looming threats that hung over her head like the sky above because of the power she held, power she never asked for in the first place.

But then, a thought rang clear in her mind that maybe, everything he had been doing was all a convoluted plot to gain power to rise and pave his way to become King of Scotland. After all, if she died without a proper heir, she would forfeit the country to her nearest of kin, to the closest cousin and who would the people accept better? Darnley is a man who is baptized a Catholic but raised a Protestant—that fact alone peaks _volume_ about his religious tolerance while all she has before her alliance was the mere word from a regent and a war costing her country millions against a Protestant country.

"How dreary," Catherine's voice jarred her back to reality, the aroma of food being handed to her further anchored her and drew her away from her thoughts. Mary shook her head at the offer of food. If anything, eating would be the least of priorities. The top would be how to break off with the alliance if Darnley is right about the situation with France, Scotland, the Vatican, and Spain. Another high priority of hers is how can she battle Darnley on her own when the alleged situation is nothing but an over-complicated lie. Catherine shot her a look, forcing the plate into her hands. "Your figure's going to hell anyway so you might as well eat up!"

Mary shot Catherine a look before taking the fork placed on top of the plate and took a piece of the sliced ham. Her thoughts going back to Darnley, it would be profoundly difficult for her to put him away. Not when he has the likes of many personalities protecting him. Leaders and influential people with the power to affect Scotland in ways Mary knew she couldn't allow her country and kingdom to suffer.

"Legend is that if you stare more fervently at the window, it will shatter," Catherine quipped dryly before the carriage came to an abrupt stop. At first, Mary gripped the edge of her seat, wondering if the sudden stop was due to something quite similar to what served as the cause to cancel her service of charity for Michaelmas. "Don't worry yourself too much, Mary. Nostradamus mentioned that your feelings are heightened, magnified even," sarcasm was in her tone but it was there to mask how terrified she is as well. " _Feelings_ , honestly," Catherine before she pulled from her hair a long and pointed pin.

Mary balked at the sight at first before realizing that the woman in front of her was Catherine de Medici. "Poisoned?"Mary asked, hoping actually, for once that it was in fact lethal. Mary never thought that she would see the day where she actually prayed that Catherine was armed with poison.

Catherine sighed, as if it was wishful thinking and also because she wanted the pin to be poisoned as well. "Poisoned? You say that so hopefully now, but sadly it's not." Catherine had somewhat of an offended expression on her face. "I don't carry poison everywhere," Catherine then was deep in thought, as if she was contemplating or thinking of a situation. "I might accidentally kill myself," Mary raised a brow at Catherine when a guard suddenly opened the door.

"Majesties," The guard bowed his head ever so slightly and Mary found herself sighing in relief, grabbing the cup nearest to her hand and taking a sip from it before she realized that it was actually the herbal tea that she despised so much. Immediately, she placed it down on a platform before gesturing for the guard to continue what he was going to say. "The Lord Darnley, Henry Stuart, offered to give us lodgings for tonight," Mary looked outside and saw that they were parked right in front of a drawbridge. "Are we to accept the Lord Darnley's proposal?"

Mary braced herself for the moment of truth. Catherine gave her a strange look. "We shall."


End file.
